


Not a goodbye - 1 - To the North (and back)

by diesis



Series: Not a goodbye [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post Season 07
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-01-11 04:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18423255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diesis/pseuds/diesis
Summary: They said goodbye to each other more than once, and every time they thought they weren't going to meet anymore. But they did, and now their fate brings them together again.Mainly J/B, with hints of other relationships and different POVs.Show based, after season 7 - (therefore now it's canon-divergent...)





	1. Prologue - Arya, now

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first work, not beta-ed and English isn't my native language, please forgive my mistakes. I'll add more tags and characters in the next chapters. Of course, I don't own either the characters or the setting, and I hope I'm not messing them up too much...
> 
> I had to delete and repost the first two chapters to fix some incongruities.

"Horses should rest". Edmure Tully's voice sounds louder and more resolute than it really is, because he's sitting behind her on the mare, and Arya is sure that she would have despised her uncle for his far too obvious lack of bravery, had she met him before. Now she finds him almost wise. Now everything has changed for good. 

She would never have thought to be the one to appreciate cowardice, she's always been the one who never faltered, never baulked. But now even her days of blindness in Braavos seem bright. There was more light beneath her sightless eyelids than in the white glow of these woods, a glow that becomes more and more dim with every passing day, while nights stretch their length and days grow shorter and shorter, slowly declining to the core of this long winter.  
She had something to cling to, at that time, a name, a revenge to take, a home to go back to. Winterfell's walls. She tries not to think.

" _We_ should rest." The Hound barks behind their shoulders, halting his mount.  
The two men both hate to agree with each other, but this is definitely not the time for pride.  
The army gathers up slowly at the limit of a clearing.  
In the deep of the forest the snow carpet was a bit thinner, but here every noise comes out muffled. Everything for miles is coated in dreamlike silence. Arya knows different kinds of silence, and this one is familiar. She traveled in these places before. They are not so far from the Kingsroad.  
This silence is not the dreadful one they all heard before the battle: it's full of tiny sounds, cracking of branches and leaves, small animals fleeing as they approach.  
Sounds are homelike but none of them feels safe.

 -----

"There's still light, Clegane!" Shouts the sellsword who showed up with the Lannister and Tully men "And I'd better put as much distance as I can between us and those fuckin' things." He still craves to argue with the Hound, it seems, and Arya is about to tell him to shut up once and for all, but the redhead wildling preempts her. "Those fuckin' things don't chase us, man. They would already have caught us yesterday."

Arya met Tormund for the first time a fortnight ago, and still doesn't know if she really can trust the man, but he's right.  
They have run at breakneck speed for hours after the battle, then stopped in the woods and lost almost a whole day talking care of the wounded and building pyres, to burn the dead ones that clung to some horses. Wights would have reached them then, and if they didn't, it means they are not coming South at all. Not for now, at least.

Arya tries not to think about the Godswood and the dragons, neither about how fast could have gone the ones who escaped through the passage in the crypts. She tries not to think that they should have already met them by now, even if the army is moving forward slowly - most of them two on a horse, all of them battered and bewildered. And she really tries not to think about her sister and the other runaways - women, old men, children, who rushed down the tunnel by foot - she tries and she fails.  
Death used to be much easier in the Many-Faced God temple. Death is still much easier when it doesn't mean losing someone you love.  
While the Hound and the sellsword still bicker, she scans the riders and reminds herself of her list, her second one. Some people on that list are still alive, some of them might be.

The Kinglayer spurs his mount and reaches the front of the party, Brienne slumbering limp at his back.  
They were the last ones on the battlefield - he did ride back to her, in fact, saved her as she was about to succumb, tended to her mauled cheek and her injured leg when they stopped. As they left again, Arya's uncle suggested it would be much more proper that the few women didn't mount the same horse with men that weren't their husbands or relatives. Wildling women pretended they didn't hear. Lannister scowled and furiously refused to let Brienne ride with anyone else. They spent the last hours on the rear of the party, chattering in a whisper, but now she has fallen asleep again.

 -----

"What's going on?" He speaks to Lord Tully but looks at Arya, rising his golden hand in a questioning gesture.  
"Children are scuffling..." She answers, earning an offended glare by the Hound. "Hark who's talking, the puppy-wolf..." The sellsword scoffs.  
"You'd better hold your tongue, Bronn."  
"Or else?"  
"She might cut your throat while you sleep. Or even while you're awake, for what's worth." The Hound replies. Bronn laughs, trying to call a bluff, but everyone else remains deadly serious and Arya feels she made a point.  
"How's your lady, Lannister?" (The wildling mutters "Oh, fuck yourself!")  
"You know how she is, Clegane: she's strong and sleek, she was amazing on the field, wielding that flaming sword. And I 'm lucky that she's too stubborn to die..."

It's such a strange thing, Arya says to herself, when she was a little girl everyone - mother, Sansa, she tries not to think of them and yet she does - everyone kept on teaching her that she should have been more feminine, more delicate to be a suitable lady. That no man could like, let alone love, the wild tomboy she was. That she should have changed, become someone else (the latter she did, somehow, but certainly not in the way her parents would have wished).  
Now she sees Lannister's sparkling eyes when he speaks of _"his lady"_ and he holds her as they belong to each other, and the lady is Brienne: mannish, ugly, awkward - and tenacious and straightforward, a fierce, terrific warrior. He loves her nonetheless.

"...but she's tired. We all are. If you wish to go on you'll do it on your own, Bronn."  
Lannister soldiers obey to their commander with a sigh of relief, and dismount their horses, Tully men and the remaining knights from Vale and northern armies follow swiftly.  
Wildlings are less accustomed to riding and they get off clumsily. Gendry helps the one who shared his saddle, then turns his head and searches for her from across the crowd. He nods. Arya nods back. She may as well be the last of her house, but at least she's not alone. Nor is he.  
Maybe that twinkle in his eyes is the only thing worth fighting for, even now that all is shattered and burnt to ashes.  
When they'll move tomorrow she'll tell her uncle to go to hell and she'll share the horse with Gendry, propriety be damned.

 -----

"Hey, puppy-wolf, I got it. Won't bother you, I promise. There's no need of doing that creepy noise..." Bronn whispers at her.  
"I wasn't..." She blurts out, and then stops, freezing. She heard it too, everyone is hearing it, now: a wolf - and another, and another, howling, coming closer. Horses start panicking, someone shouts to keep them in the middle of the clearing, someone else murmurs direwolves, one lone mare escapes from its reins and runs blindly through the woods. No one dares to chase it. Swords are unsheathed, Arya watches the Valyrian steel dagger blazing in her hand, watches her back, sees the men's eyes, their nostrils flaring in anticipation. "If they howl they're still alive." It's _his_ voice, she catches a glimpse of his shape, tall at her side, holding the war hammer so that he won't risk to hurt her if he swing it.

The beasts' wailing is so near that they might appear any moment.

Arya breathes, closes her eyes and opens them again. Then she sheaths both Needle and the dagger, hushes Gendry's worries raising her hand and walks forward slowly towards the nearest trees. Her palms outstretched, she looks for movements between the dark barks and the dried bushes.  
One step, another. I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell, she reminds herself. I'm a fighter and I have learned magic. I spoke to Death and I said not today. I became Death myself. I'm the last wolf. I can do this. I must try.  
"Nymeria! Ghost!" She shouts as loud as she can.

A human voice shouts back, and Arya almost thinks she's just imagining it. But she's not imagining the stunned, grimy face that emerges from low bushes, and the face is Lyanna Mormont's and she mutters her name, then glances back and calls out "Here!"  
In a moment Arya finds herself crushed in a hug - Lyanna, and immediately after her comes a boy from her clan that throws himself at them so forcefully that they all stumble to the ground like playful cubs, and they laugh, and they cry.

 


	2. Jaime 1 - a couple of moons before

Ride and think, Jaime hadn't done much but ride and think since he left King's Landing. He might have been the stupidest of Lannisters when it came to plot and conspiracies, but he still was a good judge of war and armies, and his thoughts were not a waste of time. 

He rode as fast as he could, staying away from the main roads but following close their path, barely halting for some hours to sleep, and risking the Kingsroad only when darkness provided him a decent shelter - days were already becoming shorter, but slowly.  
He outstripped the Dothraki troops on the third night, while their huge convoy camped close to the crossroads to Antlers. Fires burned in the distance, and he had to force himself to go forward. Most of the Northerners had left the city with the Essosi horde, and somewhere by one of the bonfires a tall woman was surely polishing a Valyrian blade - his blade, the one that was always going to be hers. He could describe her eyes in the firelight as if he were there: the same shade of blue of a night sky, heated by the gold of flames, intent, beautiful.

He really had to force himself not to run straight into the horselords' camp, sit by the fire beside the Maid of Tarth and beg her to forgive him, to curse him, to kiss him, something, anything, whatever it took to wipe away the look of frustration and disdain she addressed to him back in the Dragon Pit. But the moment he turned his back to his sister, he swore - even if only to himself - to put aside everything for the greater good, most of all his own desires. So he spurred the horse and went on, wincing when the wind brought far echoes of people laughing and singing some foreign melody, while they tried to enjoy what little merriment was left before the battles to come.

Cersei was not so mad to let the news of her treason spread, not as long as the Dothraki were still so close - they could easily turn back to the city, and after the defeat on the way back from Highgarden every general of the Lannister army was too well aware of what it meant facing them on an open field. She surely would wait, at least until the horde crossed the Trident.  
This gave him time, and time was precious, but he wasn't sure she hadn't already placed a bounty on his head, so he had to be careful and to hide as much as he could.

The following morning he reached the hills near Harrenhal, and spent the entire day lost in a weird rush of memories. Every dell, every stone spoke of things that he would have liked both to have forgotten and to never forget at the same time: in those valleys he had lost his sword hand and had found the only person who believed he was whole even after that. The only one who believed in his honor, the one who made him believe he still had some. It was much easier to think about battles and strategies than to confront the feelings that those memories raised in him. It would have been better to never cross the Riverlands again.  
It would have been better to catch the Targaryen girl in Dragonstone, but he got wind that she had already sailed off by boat, with her Unsullieds, her bastard king, and Tyrion. It was a tough ride up to White Harbour, with the worsening weather an the snow that now slowly painted white the hills, but he was going to get there on time, if he avoided ambushes. He was going to reunite with his brother, to warn them all about Cersei's treachery, and then they would be able to plan a good strategy to enforce the Wall and to defeat the Night King once and for all.

He was not going to think of what would come after. He didn't expect to be still alive, after.

\----

He rode, he thought, he played different plausible scenarios in his mind, he focused on weapons, fleets, weather, travel times, routes.

So, on the morning of the fifth day, when he spotted the little party of a dozen Gold Cloaks, Jaime knew that something was wrong. The timing was wrong: they'd likely left the city at least a week earlier, immediately after the meeting at the Dragon Pit, and back then Cersei couldn't have sent them to chase him, because he didn't know himself that he was going to leave her. The fact that Bronn, of all people, was with them, was even wronger, and the fact that the cocky sellsword rode silent wearing a gloomy face filled his heart with dread.  
He kept following them from inside the woods for some time, while they made their way along the Kingsroad, singing bawdy songs and chattering aloud as if they were on a leisure trip and didn't expect anyone to attack them. Hence, Jaime realised they didn't know at all that the truce promised by their queen was a hollow deception.  
When his trail came within earshot to the road, he could hear them distinctly.  
"Why don't you sing with us, _Ser_ of the Blackwater?" Said a voice he recognised but couldn't identify exactly.  
The forenamed _Ser_  didn't answer at all.  
"Oh come on... is she so fearsome?" Teased another voice.  
"It depends on which _"she"_ you're talking about." Bronn grunted. "Anyway, the lady is fearsome but not a fool: you're far too many. She won't put up a fight."  
"We are far too many, man, we. Remember your deal with Her Grace." This one was the known voice again, probably the leader of the expedition.  
"The deal is that I'll convince her, not that I'll fight her." Bronn cut short, while other voices raised, mocking, laughing.  
"I heard she fought a bear naked, didn't she?"  
"Aye, but you hardly could tell which one was the beast!"  
"Can't believe the queen is jealous of such an ugly whore..."  
"Can't believe the Kingslayer had the guts to fuck such an ugly whore!"  
The dread became panic, it throbbed in his heart so loudly that it spared him to hear some more, until they started to sing the refrain of _"The bear and the maiden fair"_. Then panic became a different kind of fear, the one that was focused and resolved, and cleared his mind. If she wasn't riding among the Dothraki army, as he had supposed, she couldn't be far ahead, and he needed to find her before the men did. But he had just spurred lightly his mount to pass them away, when he heard Bronn again. "We did catch her up, finally. That one there is her mare."  
Carefully sticking out from the trees behind them, Jaime detected the smoke, the funnel and then the snow-spotted roof of an inn, shortly further, horses tied to the fence near to the entrance. A couple of hooded men came out and saddled their mounts, glancing uneasily towards the party. None of them was tall, nor blonde.  
"So now what's the plan, _Ser_?" The annoying cunt taunted Bronn again.  
"I go inside and I get her out. Then you take her back to King's Landing, as _Her Grace_ commands. And then I'm done with it, I'll proceed to join the army as agreed." He stated, sourly.  
"Her Grace didn't say we can't have some fun with the big bitch, before taking her back, did she?"  
Bronn didn't answer.  
Jaime spotted the sharp bend of the road near to the inn. That was a first move, then he was going to improvise. He spurred his horse, hoping that they were to focused on their prey to notice the noise.  
No one chased him.

Through the wood, he silently went around the inn until he reached the road on the opposite side, and clenched the black hood against his face when he came closer to the building from the other way, as if he were one of the many refugees heading from North to South. He tried to act casually, a glance to the Gold Cloaks was enough both to count them and to put a face on some of the voices he heard before: eleven riders, chosen among the greediest and the cruelest of their corps. Cersei clearly didn't mind how much she spent when she promised them a reward.  
The leading one and a half of the others dismounted their horses while he was doing the same, but were too intent watching the door of the inn to pay attention to him at all. With a nod, the man sent two riders to check the back of the building - an useless precaution, since the northern wall hadn't any way out, and both the kitchen and the stables looked onto the same courtyard of the main entrance.

Bronn had already entered the filthy old door, so Jaime tied his horse to the fence and followed him inside, still concealing his face.  
The inn was warm and quite crowded, but voices were low and everyone seemed serious and far from merry. People talked about sackings, snow and famine, in a corner a young girl with nervous eyes fed a baby at her meagre breast, while her older son grasped silently the hem of her dress. The woman's husband, himself barely more than a child, looked around vigilantly, and Jaime recognised his own worry in the lad's gaze, the concern of not being able to protect his dearest ones.  
And dear she was, his lady knight, her unmistakable mop of straw-blonde hair towering across the room. She sat facing the door but she didn't see him, too busy listening to Bronn with a growing frown.  
Brienne. He called her name in his mind. Brienne, we survived once, we'll make it this time as well. I swear we'll do. I'll figure out how.

By a stroke of luck, a table next to them was empty, and he settled himself back to back to Bronn.  
He sat silent on the bench, hiding beneath the hood, while the man ended his explanation in a grim tone.  
"...back to King's Landing."  
"Why should I? Aren't we on a truce?"  
"We are. But this is not about the war. The Queen requested to summon you _personally_ , if you get what I mean, my lady." Jaime almost chuckled at the formality, and wondered how this woman was able to bring out the best of everyone, earning a gentleman's regard from the blunt sellsword. "The deal is that I'll proceed North to reach our armies after they take you." The deal was very likely that they had commands to stab him in the back, as soon as they finished with her, but Bronn seemed oblivious to that.  
"Has something happened to Ser Jaime?" She asked, too distressed to hide her concern.  
"No, as far as I know he's not... involved."  
He heard her releasing a breath, then her voice became defiant. "What if I refuse your _kind_ offer, Ser?"  
"There's a dozen of them, outside, horseback. Far too many for you to take all on your own. Too many for you and Pod, even if he were the best swordsman in all Westeros. And he isn't." Too many even if he himself still were the best swordsman in all Westeros, Jaime counted with a pang of desperation. They needed to flee, somehow, or they needed more help, and of course they wouldn't find it among the bunch of battered refugees that filled the inn.  
"By the way, where is the lad?" Bronn added, surveying the crowd. Jaime lowered his head some more to avoid his scrutiny.  
"Not here. I left him with Sandor Clegane." She hissed.  
Bronn roared a sad laugh. "Jaime was right, you're a bad liar..." Jaime startled. She sounded sincere, and yet he recognised Podrick's horse outside. "What I can offer is that I won't give away the boy. The crazy cunt just asked of you, lucky him." Bronn's words were bitter.  
"It's not that I wouldn't like to help. But I've been made a kind offer as well. And she made sure to send too many of them."  
"What are their orders? Will they take me alive? And... unscathed?"  
"Alive. Nothing 'bout the rest. Anyway, I guess you won't remain safe and sound, when she'll have you. I'm sorry. Really." The mercenary meant it.  
"What if I fight back?"  
Bronn sighed, heavily. "Your choice. In your place, I'd better go with a sword in my hand than tortured in a crypt of the Keep."  
Jaime shuddered.  
He recalled the cries and the wailings from the cell where Cersei had that septa locked up, he winced at the thought of what she inflicted on Ellaria Sand, of how much that cruelty had aroused his sister. He didn't like it, however he justified it. Revenge, he had said to himself, it was an act of revenge for Cersei's humiliation, for Myrcella's death. It was savage, but _right_ , and he knew something about bad deeds and good reasons.  
This wasn't right at all, instead.  
Brienne's only fault was her honesty at that damned meeting, the way she couldn't conceal that she cared about him, and it had been enough for his sister to feel threatened.  
It wasn't right and he would have liked to shout it out loud, anger boiling in his veins, but if he wanted to save the lady somehow he had to keep quiet some more, so he just gritted his teeth while she silently considered her options.  
"What if you had reached me while I was still among the Dothraki?" She asked within moments.  
"I would have lied. I'd have said that your precious Jaime wanted you to come back to the city. You would have followed me in a rush."  
"Why aren't you lying now?"  
"Believe it or not, I usually tell the truth when I don't risk an arakh at my neck." Bronn fell silent again. "You know, I like the man. He's an arrogant asshole, and still owes me a fuckin' castle and a wife, but he's... I can say he's a friend. And I hate it, when someone manages to fuck me and my friends: that's exactly what that bitch just did, she fucked all of us. Those idiots outside say she's jealous, but you should love someone to be jealous, and she doesn't love him. You don't try to fuck over someone you love."  
The weight of the man's words hit Jaime like a millstone and left him without air in his lungs for a moment, but suddenly he heard Brienne's armour clinking while she stood, ready to head towards the door. In a swift move, he changed his seat, blocking Bronn on the bench and revealing himself. The two of them both froze on the spot, speechless, and before they could utter a word he spoke to her, piercing her eyes with his own. "Where are them, Pod and the Hound?"  
She stared at him, a little girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar, and he knew that his assumption had been right before she spoke. She was a bad liar after all, and she had never been able to lie to him, not even if she tried to protect her squire. "Th...they're in the kitchen, packing supplies for the trip."  
Jaime grinned. "So we're five, and at least six of them aren't on horseback now." Bronn scowled in despair. "You'll be the death of me, Lannister."  
"Go fetch your friends, my lady, we'll wait for you outside in a minute." Brienne just nodded and left quickly, then he stood up and offered his left to Bronn, who still sat reluctantly. "Come on, man, I still owe you a castle but now I'm just saving your ass as you did with mine."  
"I rescued you from a bloody _dragon_! We aren't even anyway." He hissed in his ear while they made their way to the main exit.  
Passing by, he stopped the skinny serving wench and whispered her to bar the door and to keep the hosts inside. The girl widened her eyes and gulped, then followed him in a hurried pace to carry out his order.

His appearance shocked the Gold Cloaks enough to distract their rotten bunch for some moments. He had thought he could persuade them to get back without their charge but, as soon as they spotted him, one bursted into laughter and another made some nasty jape about the Kingslayer defending his whore. The laughter didn't last long.  
Bronn took care of the leader first, getting back at him for all the taunts he had to endure during their trip, while the Hound charged the closest rider - horses being a hindrance in the enclosed space of the courtyard. One of the riders fled as he saw his comrade's quick defeat and the raw fury in Clegane's eyes, the others dismounted to join the melee.  
As for himself and Pod, they both stood their ground. The boy had improved indeed, and Jaime had too. The clanging of swords, the weight of the hilt in his left - it didn't feel wrong anymore, just slightly weird, and his golden hand was heavy and effective when he used it to smash the teeth of one of his opponents, or to stop a blade in the socket of its palm. The blades, the shouts and the thrill, the coppery taste of blood. Brienne. Brienne was as strong and skilled as he remembered. The men underestimated her, it was something she was used to, and she exploited it at her own advantage. He had done the same mistake, a long time ago. Two of them attacked her together, screaming - as if a battle cry would frighten her. She dodged them, moving aside suddenly, then pushed her weapon in the guts of the nearest one, using his body to shield herself from the other, before ending him as well in a couple of strokes. Jaime felt her rather than see her when she parried a blow on his right, and all of a sudden he realised that she was fighting alongside him, at last. It was the first time, yet they moved together in a spontaneous dance, their swords like twirls of a gown, their blood and their steel singing the same melody.  
It was new, and exhilarating, and it was over more swiftly than he expected.  
When the last Gold Cloak collapsed to the ground, Brienne turned to him and pointed Oathkeeper right to his chest - her breath heavy, her eyes burning with rage. "What the hell are you doing?" He spat. "What the hell are _you_ doing? Here, alone?" Gods, how could he explain her something he hardly could explain to himself?

It was the Hound who spoke first, placing a hand on her arm with unsettling confidence. "Not now, woman, not here." They all turned to follow his gaze to the windows of the inn, where people had crammed to watch the fight. The door of the kitchen slammed open, the innkeeper stood puzzled in the threshold. Clegane glared at him for the briefest moment. "Burn the bodies." He said calmly. Then headed to his horse and started to adjust the saddle. The plump old man tried to collect his courage and straightened his shoulders, his fat paunch bounced forward in the move. "We won't take the blame for this butchery, you..."  
"Blame who the fuck you want, but burn the bodies!" The Hound growled louder, turning to him again, this time with threatening eyes. "Or they'll rise again, eventually. That's what the Night's Watch on the fuckin' Wall has done for ages, and now the night is coming South, you cunt!" There was something solemn in his words, despite the cursing, and the landlord sensed it.  
"We'll do it, ser." A female voice answered from inside the kitchen. The young servant sneaked out from behind her master's back, and handed to Clegane a big gunnysack. Her hands were shaking but she looked at him straight in the eye. "Your supplies."  
The man didn't utter a word, but the ghost of a smile lightened his face - just a glimpse, before he regained his usual scowl. The girl surveyed them all and nodded a goodbye, then disappeared again into the building. Brienne finally lowered her sword, sheathed it, and went quickly to her horse. Jaime switched his mount with one of the Gold Cloaks' less fatigued ones. They were ready within a few moments, and they left in a tense silence.

They rode silently for almost an hour. Brienne set the pace to a very fast trot, and never turned to watch at him.  
Unsurprisingly, when a slope forced them to slow down, Bronn was the first to stop his horse and to speak an idiotic comment. "So, Clegane, when we last met before the Blackwater battle you didn't seem very interested in women. I'd never thought you'd find yourself such a remarkable chick, it's clearly an improvement." Sooner or later his sharp tongue would get him killed, Jaime thought, and if the Hound doesn't punch him in the face maybe _I_ will. "What?" Brienne snapped to the sellsword, her face deeply flushed, while Clegane just shook his head. "You're the same cunt you were back then, instead." He said, phlegmatically. The man had changed, indeed - he still was surly and unsociable, but his attitude reminded Jaime more of a hermit than of the feral warrior he used to know. "We just head North together. It's dangerous to travel alone. Or with people you can't rely on." Clegane remarked tartly to Bronn.  
"No offence to you, Tarth." He added then, looking at Jaime rather than at her. "But I'd never fuck a woman who can best me with a sword."  
Brienne's glow turned from the outrage shade of red to the pride one. She _did_ beat him, Jaime realised. And she's not sleeping with him, he released a breath.  
"Lannister, your turn."  
Jaime sighed, ran his hand through his hair, lowered his gaze. "Let's go ahead until we reach the Trident and set camp for the night. It's not safe to talk while we're on the road."  
Brienne nodded without a word, and spurred her horse to climb the hill.

\-----

They had followed the Green Fork upstream for the next days. The trails through the forest weren't the quickest route but the safer; besides, the weather was cold but quite good, they could find plenty of shelter for the night without building tents so they didn't waste too much time, and they could hunt more easily. They had agreed to reach Moat Cailin together and then to part ways: Jaime and Bronn would go East to White Harbour, while the others would proceed straight to Winterfell.  
Clegane and Bronn had managed not to kill each other - not yet -, Pod was companionable and jolly as usual, Brienne treated Jaime coldly, barely speaking and keeping her distance. She was still mad at him, he hadn't been able to understand why, and dreaded asking. Anyway, traveling with her, her silence and her scowl was much better than the thought of what might have been if he didn't reach her at the inn. Jaime almost dared to say it was a good journey.  
No one of his travel companions had been too surprised at Cersei's lies, and no one had asked him anything else after the few words he said on the first night - that she tricked them, wasn't going to send any army to help the North, and had hired thousands of mercenaries from Essos to await whoever was going to come back South.  
No one asked him why he left. No one asked why he didn't leave a long time ago.

"Are you sure about him?" Clegane asked Brienne on the third evening, as soon as Pod and Bronn went away from the camp to collect firewood for the night, while Jaime tried to make himself useful feeding the horses. "I am." She answered. Her gaze was still harsh but something softened her eyes while they came closer. "She says you're not spying on us for your sister." The man declared. "So, before your fellow comes back, we'd better share what we know about this fucking war."  
Jaime felt relieved. War was a safe topic, war was all that mattered - it really went beyond houses and oaths. They doubted Bronn, and he himself couldn't totally vouch for the man. But they didn't doubt him, she didn't doubt him.  
The report they made, however, wasn't encouraging at all. One of the dragons had been killed beyond the Wall near Eastwatch. Every dead man, woman or child was another fighter for their enemy. The Essosi troops would very likely need weeks - maybe months - to get properly equipped for a fight in the northern winter, the Stark bannermen's ones were mostly scattered in small keeps all around the kingdom. They had men from the Vale still in Winterfell, but they now were under Littlefinger's command, and he agreed with Brienne that the smarmy piece of shit was more a threat than a help. To defeat the Army of the Dead they needed good soldiers, dragonglass and Valyrian steel, and the Night's Watch lacked the three of them.  
A lifetime ago, he had teased a green boy about the Watch's vows. Now that boy was the King in the North, and Jaime found himself clad in black clothes and furs, planning how to hold the Wall against white walkers and monsters.  
When Bronn came back with Podrick, he was still brooding at the foot of the small crag where they took shelter for the night, and not even the sellsword's naughty jokes could lighten his mood. After their scant meal, he lay down trying to sleep for what felt like hours, before a thick numbness enfolded him.

\-----

A hand on his shoulder, a hand shaking him lightly. He knew that hand, he knew that touch. It had saved him from death, once, and now it was calling him back from the deadly darkness of his dreams. Alas, she pulled away as soon as he opened his eyes, and when he finally sat up completely awake she was already sitting on a log on the other side of the fire, close to Pod's bedroll. It was still pitch black, she had the second watch, after Podrick's and before Bronn's.  
"I'm sorry I woke you up, but you were fidgeting in your sleep. I... I thought... I have nightmares too, and it's better if they end before they get too... too much..." She moved her graceful hand resignedly, not finding the right word.  
"It's fine. Thank you."  
The dream had haunted him since the day he left the city. It pictured quite a peaceful scene, all in all - but every time he woke up from it he felt dazed and forlorn.  
He took courage, picked up his bedroll and his blankets, and settled himself close to her feet. He didn't know if she would start to speak to him again, but it was worth a try. She rolled her eyes. "Are you afraid of the dark?"  
"No, but I don't want to wake up everyone while I talk to you." He answered in a hushed voice.  
"It's an odd dream, not exactly a nightmare, but I keep on dreaming it almost every night." What was it, with this woman, that made him spill out his secrets so easily? Maybe the look in her astonishing eyes, the feeling that she was really listening to him. So he went on. "There is a field, or a garden; it's lush and green, it's spring. I'm walking behind a young man. He's a bit shorter than me, black haired and slim. I know he must show me something, because he turns to check if I'm following him. Sometimes his eyes are normal, brown-grey eyes. I think I've seen him before but I don't remember where. Sometimes the eyes are completely white; it should scare me but it doesn't."  
Brienne looked in the embers, frowning. He tried to recall most of the details. "Then, not so far from us, there's a litte child running ahead. I believe... I think the child is either me or my sister. When we were very young we used to switch our dresses sometimes... The child is crying, and I can hear what he - or she - thinks. _"Mother promised she'd take me with her on her trip this time"_ , he thinks, and he cries desperately. I'd like to comfort the little brat but the black haired boy grabs my arm and holds me back. And then everything becomes confused, and I wake up..."  
"It's Bran. Brandon Stark. The black haired boy you see, I mean." She stated without hesitation. He fell silent, gasping for air: _now_ he was scared. "Are you fine? You said it wasn't a nightmare and yet you look like you've just seen a ghost..."  
"I... I did! They said the boy had been killed by the Iron Men..." She interrupted him roughly. "His youngest brother died in the battle against Bolton, but Bran is alive. He is in Winterfell with his sisters."  
His heart skipped a beat.  
"He is... He's become a sort of wizard, or a warg, something like that. _Three-Eyed Raven_ , that's how the Wildlings call him. They say he can travel through time, and see all the things that happened before, without raising from his wheelchair..."  
Another beat, he couldn't stare back at her anymore. He felt lost. Maybe he was going to be executed sooner than he thought, and maybe that wasn't the worst thing. Confessing her everything about the mad king was nothing compared to _this_. And yet, he felt compelled to tell her. It was a matter of trust, it always had been between them. He was still struggling to find the right words - there weren't any - when she finally looked at him.  
"Is it true, then?" She whispered.  
He couldn't answer, totally taken aback. She already knew.  
"Wha... how did..."  
She shook her head. "You don't remember. I was with Lady Catelyn when they first brought you to Robb Stark's camp. She said you crippled her son. I just... I didn't know it for sure." Her words were full of bitterness.  
"Does he know?"  
She nodded silently. "I think he does. He knows many things."  
"His sisters? Ned Stark's bastard?"  
"I didn't tell them. Still, I don't know if Bran did."  
Jaime widened his eyes. He suddenly realised she had held it back from him too. "You didn't tell them? And when would you tell _me_?" He spat, dismayed.  
Betrayed didn't even begin to describe how he felt. It was still worse than discovering that Cersei had cheated on him repeatedly; that, at least, he had suspected for years. Trust, honor, oaths, everyone just spouted off about them - everyone.  
And yet, he couldn't blame Brienne entirely: he had just deluded himself, for the umpteenth time. Fuck loyalty, she had said, but now it was clear where her loyalty lay. What had he expected, anyway? She was the Starks' sworn sword and he meant nothing to her.  
He stood up, adjusted his voice to a sarcastic tone. He was so fed up of being treated like a fool.  
"Well, my head will be quite a pretty ornament on a spike out of Winterfell... So were you planning to clarify this detail before or after I..."  
"What did you think when you came alone?" She bursted out in a whisper, interrupting him. "They can sentence you anyway for your sister's treason, no matter if they know about Bran."  
"A man without honor won't be a great loss."  
She didn't rise from her seat, then, just looked upwards, her eyes scanning him - they reminded him the water under the Rock when he was a child, dangerous, stormy, ready to swallow him whole. "A man without honor would not risk his life to deliver a message to his enemies. But if I'm wrong, and if that man isn't willing to face what might come, I'll report that message on my own. You can take your horse now and get lost, Ser." She hissed, straightening her back.  
He chuckled wryly. "Ser? Oh, come on! You cleaned my shit and my vomit, and I know exactly what to say to make you turn red, or slightly pink, or crimson. Aren't we far past all this crap, Brienne?"  
Predictably, she blushed. He felt his blood get hotter, too.  
"And how should I call you, Ser?" She retorted, defiantly. She was livid, but there was something else he couldn't decipher in her mood.  
"You know my name." His voice was low. He hoped to sound menacing, but it just came out sad.  
"Jaime." She said, finally, in a sigh, turning again to the fire. He had hoped to hear his name from her under other circumstances.  
"Get lost, Jaime. If you want to go back to... if you want to go back to King's Landing I won't stop you." Her voice cracked. He had intended to hurt her, to make his way past her armour, to feel her heart pulsing in his hand while he stabbed it, but she had always been so strong that he didn't expect her to cry.  
"Careful, my lady, if you keep weeping like this, one might think you care more for me than for the child I maimed..." He said still casually and mockingly, but his heart was hammering in his chest. She cut him off again, this time her glare was furious under the veil of tears. "Well, I do! I spent the last four days trying to figure out how to keep your head attached to your neck, and every idea I had just seemed worse than the one before, and then, damn!, you keep on being insufferable, so perhaps you should really go back to where you came from!" She catched her breath, since she spewed it all out without pausing.  
Jaime startled. Gods, he really was a fool. He was so used to Cersei's behaviour that he had assumed Brienne would act in the same way, and that was total nonsense. She was looking for a way to save him, instead, and had been too worried to talk about it. A fool, an idiot. He hadn't even remembered how much it pained himself to see her suffering. "I'm sorry." He muttered, coming closer.  
She shrugged. "Brienne, I really am. Please, forgive me." This time she turned her head. "I don't want to go back."  
"Why?"  
Here it was, the question he had refused to ask himself since the beginning.  
He had fled from the city in a hurry, planning ahead but trying not to think to what he left behind: Cersei's glare when she threatened to have him killed by the Mountain, her cold disappointment when he turned his back. _"She doesn't love him",_ Bronn's earnest words echoed in his ears, and he wondered how long that love had been true, or if it had always been a lie - her lie to keep him close - all those years, all his life, all burning out to exhaustion like a wasted candle in a sept. Everything came back to him all at once in that moment, and suddenly he felt his legs giving way, his stomach lurching. He had to sit down again, unless he wanted to throw up, or to choke, or both. Brienne sensed the unsteadiness in his movement and leaned toward him, but he kneeled on his bedroll and then stumbled clumsily on the ground. She sat back on the log, and waited. "It's the right thing to do", he mumbled, eventually "and I made a promise." It still sounded like a half-truth, and she was worth of more than this. "That day, we - Cersei and I - we went inside one of the old towers of the keep. It was deserted, we went upstairs to the highest room, we would have heard anyone approaching from the staircase. But the boy came from the window, climbing the outer wall. I don't even know if he understood what he saw, I just thought that it was the only way to save us and our children. And now my children are all dead anyway."  
"Your sister is still alive..."  
"Aye, she is." He muttered. The whole truth, he reminded himself, lowering his eyes. "Cersei is pregnant. But I can't protect that child, as I couldn't protect all the others..." He wasn't even sure to be the father, but what upset him most was that he couldn't save the baby, neither from the Night King, nor from his sister.  
"You are here. You came to fight for the living. You're trying protect him anyway, somehow, even if he'll never know it." Her voice was steadier, now, the sadness gone and replaced by her usual stubborn resoluteness.  
Her hand moved in a weird angle, and it took him a while to realise that she searched for Oathkeeper's hilt, not to grip it, but to slowly stroke the pommel with her thumb, in a soothing gesture that seemed out of habit. "You saved my life, more than once. Without your help, I would never have rescued Lady Sansa, and you didn't it for your own convenience. It was anything but convenient..." She trailed off, then pressed together her lips. "I know the man you are now, I know you are not at all the oathbreaker they claim you to be. It's not up to me to judge you for what you did in the past. But you can't erase what you did, and you can't hide from it forever, either." Her words got under his skin, as they always did, if he wanted it or not. She blushed slightly as she spoke again. "I think you should come to Winterfell with us. Bran Stark is clearly calling you there for some purpose, and I don't think the purpose is to take revenge. Your dream would be different, or it wouldn't happen at all." It made sense. To understand that long forgotten memory of a time when his mother was still alive, he should ask the young Stark directly.  
"Besides, I don't know how the Dragon Queen would welcome you, while in Winterfell I'll be able to plead for you to Lady Sansa, and if..." She stopped abruptly.  
Jaime could read the path of her thoughts anyway, and swiftly placed his hand on her forearm. She flinched but didn't pull away. His pulse raced inside his gloved fingers. The White Sword Tower, he thought, the last time I brushed her skin.  
"Don't. Don't even think about it. If there's a trial by combat, I'll fight on my own. And if I lose, so be it."  
"What if the Starks ask me to be their champion?"  
Jaime answered quickly, trying to conceal his anguish, though while he spoke he would have liked to punch a wall with his good hand, he would have liked to hug her, he would have liked to be already dead. "Then it'll be my greatest honor, to be defeated by the best knight in Westeros." He declared calmly.  
She shook her head. "I can't..."  
"You can't endanger your life for mine, Brienne. Promise me, promise you won't."  
She didn't. "I still trust you." She said, instead.  
"I still trust you, too."  
She smiled, a broken smile that made him want to cry, then stared back to the fire. He hesitated, for a long moment, then released her arm.

They sat silently for a long while.  
Jaime focused on her profile, lightened by the reflection of flames. She wasn't one of the dull pretty maids he used to ignore at court, neither had the breathtaking beauty of his sister. But he loved to look at her: he loved the way her statuesque figure could loom imposing with a sword in her hand, and then hunch like that of an innocent girl, when someone just payed her a compliment. He loved the familiarity that made him forget that her face was not perfect and her features were not dainty - too pale skin, a fighter's nose and a warrior's muscles, hair like a dove's cozy nest, too full lips - lips that seemed so soft when she tortured them with her teeth as she was doing now, and he found himself moistening his own lips with his tongue by reflex. Too strong legs, too gentle hands, too pure heart, too beautiful eyes. He loved the truthfulness of her eyes. Her eyes, he would have diced with death for her eyes. In fact, he did dice with death at least a couple of times, and easily he was going to do it again. He grinned.  
"Maybe I know why Cersei..." Her name made his whole body ache, he didn't stop anyway. "I know why she's jealous of you."  
Brienne's face turned white, she seemed suddenly terrified. "It's that... you see something in me she doesn't see... something that I can't see myself. But you do: you see things, and those things happen, just because you saw them." Just because you make me feel that they can happen, that I can be a better man, just because you believe in me, he swallowed down without saying it aloud.  
She snorted a laugh.  
"I don't have magic eyes."  
"In truth, you do."  
She looked at him again, then, those eyes buried deep inside his own, dark in the dark.  
Suddenly, he became aware that she was so close he could caress her face if he lifted his hand, and he wasn't able to leave her gaze, and he shivered - hot and cold - and he almost moved his left arm forward. And then the flapping of bird wings over their heads broke the spell.  
They both turned towards the tree on the other end of the small clearing: a big black crow landed on the upper branch, cawed, and then took flight again.  
Jaime watched his golden hand glistening in the tearing of the black glove, where the fabric had been ripped during the fight with the Gold Cloaks. He felt the itching of the stump beneath it, saw his flesh hand when he pushed the Stark child down from the tower.  
Winterfell, then: he would head there, instead of White Harbour. If someone was to claim his head first, that was Brandon Stark. The mad king's daughter would very likely be disappointed, but he owed that much to the little boy he crippled. It felt like a sad relief, knowing that he was going to pay his debts, after all.  
"I'll take the next watch. Go to sleep, Brienne." He said, staring at the fire. She hesitated. Her intake seemed to foreshadow a response, but then she simply nodded and settled down under the furs, turning her face from him and moving a bit closer to Podrick, that rested on her other side. "Goodnight, Jaime." She whispered, and then slowly her breath got more relaxed. He saw her long legs jerk slightly, a twitch that told she was sleeping, finally, and he wished she had good dreams - he wondered if she ever dreamed of him.  
He dreamed of her, sometimes. But he thought of her more often while awake. Some days, the waters of the bay reflected the sky in a way that was similar to the ocean near her island, that one time he saw it from the distance, and he wondered if she was still on her quest or had made her way back home. Some others, all he needed was a glimpse of a blue dress on one of his sister's servants, or to walk down the garden terrace when they once stood together talking about Sansa Stark.  
He had thought of her more often since he came back from Riverrun. Their encounter there shocked him deeply. He didn't believe he would ever meet her again, and instead here she was, more confident and proud than he remembered, and annoyingly honorable as she always had been, and when she entered his tent he thankfully sat on the other side of a table, because he had been so euphoric to see her alive and well that his first instinct would have been to throw his arms around her. He kept his distance, instead, they both did. He didn't accept the sword back, not only because he wanted her to keep a tangible evidence of his affection, but also because he didn't trust himself to ever let her go if he had grabbed her hand. He couldn't tell if he made every effort to end the siege without bloodshed _just_ because she was inside the castle, but of course it was _also_ because she was there.  
When he bade her farewell silently from the ramparts, he had been sure that the Gods would never let him see her another time, tainted and unredeemable as he was.

What he found back in the city made him believe that the Gods, if there were any, at best didn't give a damn to whatever men did, and at the least were nothing more than an unfair bunch of sadists, because it was his doomed life they should have taken, not Tommen's. And they shouldn't have let the woman he loved - the woman he still loved - become a mirror of his worst nightmare.  
So in the last year he had thought about Brienne with a hopeless longing, the yearning for something that would never happen, a daydream that helped him to get through the days, while his reality was grim, full of Cersei's whims and obsessions, and his aim to keep in check his sister's temper proved to be more and more difficult.  
He had always used to go away inside, to talk with long gone people, to visit places that didn't exist but in his mind. Lately, however, in his favourite reverie he was somewhere at Brienne's side. He had built his fantasy in detail: it included leaving the Tully castle with her after the siege, travelling back to Winterfell, helping the northern armies against that turncoat Bolton, and then heading to Essos to find the younger Stark sister. There were fights, bandits, people who needed their help, people that didn't call him Kingslayer anymore and that never looked at her like a freak and treated her with respect, since she was a highborn lady and a knight - because of course he would have knighted her after the very first battle.  
It was a life that he wasn't allowed to live all the same, but imagining it didn't harm anyone.

Once, just once, Cersei had dismissed him early during a reception, because there were guests from the Iron Bank she would deal without him in the way. She preferred Qyburn's eerie advices and the abomination that once had been Gregor Clegane to guard her, so he let himself get into the festivities and become slightly drunk. When he went back to his chamber, his mind wandered to Brienne, unbidden, and he crossed a line he shouldn't have, because later it felt as if his mere thoughts had stained her - his thoughts, his hand, the numb skin of his stump he had caressed pretending not to be alone in his bed - but it had been so good that the next day he almost expected his sister to call him a traitor just by looking at his flustered face. Cersei had been too busy planning how to pay back the Braavosi bankers to even glance at him.  
He had tried to think less about Brienne, after that, and he almost succeeded, until he saw her again in the flesh. Having her so close, watching her while she slept gave him an odd sense of peace and safety, as if for once he were exactly where he was meant to be, and it didn't matter that it was on the way to his death.

Later, when he switched the guard with Bronn and settled down to sleep, he moved his arm between them until his golden hand gently rested a hairbreadth away from her back, beneath the fur blanket. He'd put the damned artefact to some good use, after all: this way, he could delude himself that he was touching her, and if she shifted she would just imagine that it was a stone, or a branch scratching her ribs, and would not push him away. With this thought, watching her broad shoulders moving up and down with every breath, Jaime fell asleep.

\-----

He woke before dawn, warm and well rested. It took a brief moment to realise it: they cuddled unconsciously in their sleep, and now he was holding her, leaning completely against her back, legs pressed together, his right arm across her waist, his face on her nape, her heart beating into his chest through layers of wool and boiled leather.  
He had been rarely allowed to wake up so close to a woman - and even then, his sister was already awake when his eyelids opened, her own eyes inspecting, demanding, always ready to scheme or to fuck.  
Brienne just slept in his embrace. She had looked through his name and his deeds, until what she saw was his bare soul, and she still deemed him worthy.  
He knew he loved her then and there, clinging to her big, solid body - her body that was surprisingly soft and yielding in her sleep - he knew that he had loved her for a long time, but there was Cersei, there had always been Cersei, and he had always believed that _that_ was the only kind of feeling he could name love. Maybe there still was Cersei, but he didn't care anymore. His sweet sister had seen it coming long before him, and he cursed himself because she was right: he really had been stupid, it was such a simple thing and he hadn't understood it.  
But now - with Brienne in his arms - nothing seemed complicated.  
He loved her.  
It didn't burn like wildfire, it flowed like water after a drought. It felt new. It felt like spring.  
Even his lust was different, although not unfamiliar - not after their shared bath, so long ago.  
He wished he still had his right hand, so he could sneak it through the fur and the fabric to cup her small breasts, he wished she turned her head so he could taste her lips, he wished they were both naked as they had been in Harrenhal, to bury himself between her goddessly thighs - the way she had sighed his name, without titles at last, the way she could moan it on his own mouth.

He loved her, and she had almost been killed for it. His sister had tried to murder her because of a gaze and a couple of words. He was a traitor in the South and an enemy in the North. To make matters worse, he was an enemy that didn't bring with him the army they promised.  
And Brienne cared for him too much for her own good. Gods, maybe she loved him back - the mere thought was shocking and overwhelming and deadly dangerous. Ostinate and selfless as she was, if she tried to stand up for him against the Starks or, worse, the Targaryen girl, then her own life would be on the line, and he couldn't bear to lose her, even if it meant never having her.

He pretended to be asleep for one more moment, holding her a bit tighter because it was all he would ever have, trying to fix that touch in his mind, in his body, to keep it locked in his chest for all the lonely days that were going to come.

Clegane shot him a kick against the foot and a glare that was - somehow - warning.  
He silently cursed him for having broken the embrace, but blessed that he had been sensible enough not to wake Brienne as well.  
Jaime disentangled himself, while the other man was waking up Pod and Bronn still snored near the remains of the fire. He seized on the moment to get on his feet and stride towards the trees. He felt the eyes of the Hound piercing his back.  
When he was out of view and sure no one followed him, he leaned against a trunk and jerked himself off, her scent still lingering in his nostrils, the sky growing paler and as blue as her eyes, tears prickling at the corner of his eyelashes and a huge, suffocating lump in his throat.  
He calmed down, cleaned himself, and made sure his eyes were dry before returning to the camp. He watched the brighter stars fading in the dawn, and wondered if the Gods were punishing him again, or just having fun at his expense in their own unfathomable way.  
He fixed his gaze desolately on his feet while he walked back.

\-----

As he arrived, the others were almost ready to leave. "About time, Lannister!" The Hound shouted "We'd better go if we want to reach Moat Cailin before next summer."  
"I won't come to Moat Cailin." Four pairs of eyes stared at him in disbelief.  
"If I head West, I might arrive at the Twins at sunset. We sent a garrison up there, after the Freys were slaughtered. About thousand men, but still better than nothing. And their commander is an old friend."  
Bronn rolled his eyes and shook his head. "You think you can convince them to mutiny against the fucking queen?"  
"Well, I convinced _you_. Anyway, if the dead come South, Cersei will be the least of their worries."  
"Oh fuck!" Clegane snickered. "A Lannister with some sanity! It's truly the end of the world..."  
"If I succeed, they can reach Winterfell in a couple of weeks, and Castle Black in less than a month. And they'll be ready to fight immediately, unlike all the Essosi soldiers." "What if you... what if you don't succeed?" He had carefully avoided to look at her, but now he had to. He knew his eyes would tell more than his words. "Then, my lady, the living would lose just one man, and not the most skilled one." He answered raising his false right hand, then turned to Clegane. "I hope I'll be able to send ravens as well, both to Sansa Stark and to the Manderlys at the Harbour, to break the news more quickly. Maybe also to our troops in Riverrun, and further West towards Lannisport. Some generals might respond and come North." He paused, searched for her eyes again. "I'll write to your father, on Tarth, too. My sister couldn't catch you, but she still has Euron Greyjoy's fleet at her command. I'm sorry for that, but they must be prepared to face an assault." He watched her eyes widening, fear shaking her. She had had just a taste of his sister's villainy, but Jaime knew it far too well, and was sure that any precaution would be of use. In the end, she nodded. "Is that all?"

"No. Some more things. First, if you find any rookery send ravens to Winterfell, White Harbour and Tarth, with the same messages, in case I'm not allowed to write from the Twins. Then, tell your friends that they'd better evacuate every town and every small keep close to Castle Black and to the Wall. They should send South everyone who can't fight, because if the Night King crosses the Wall, every dead one will fight against us. And we should gather troops and people in the bigger castles, it will be easier to defend them - patrols should be small and well trained, but don't waste neither the best men nor the best weapons, because we'll need them to aim at the White Walkers during the battles." "Is it _"we"_ already?" Bronn interrupted him. "Aye, you cunt, _we_ still breathe." Clegane answered in his stead. "Thanks, Clegane." "Fuck off, Lannister."

Brienne stood silently by her horse. Goodbye, he thought, but he didn't want to say it aloud, it killed him. She was looking at her waist, at the lions chiselled on her sword. Goodbye, he thought, watching his own swordbelt. He wanted to hold her, he wanted to kiss her. Goodbye, he suddenly knew there was one last thing he had to do.  
"Podrick, come here!" He called.

\----

They parted ways shortly after, he promised they would meet again in Winterfell in a couple of weeks. He did not turn back - it was almost physically painful, but he didn't.  
"You might as well fuck her for real, you know." Bronn blurted after a while. "They call her your whore anyway."  
Jaime clenched the fist of his phantom hand, didn't so much as look at his fellow while he spoke. "She's not a whore" He hissed through gritted teeth. "and she's not mine".  
"Your whore, your lover, whatever. You're both already fucked, but without the pleasant side of the matter."  
No, not a lover either. But beloved. He steadied himself.  
The things he did for love, over and over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The assumption here is that in the show - unlike in the books - during the bathtub scene Jaime didn't tell clearly to Brienne that it was him who pushed Bran down from the tower, so he supposes that she doesn't know it.


	3. Brienne 1 - the road heading North

Jaime, Jaime, Jaime, his name had been a spell in her head since the moment they parted four days before, a desperate plea, a curse she couldn't stop saying. Brienne cursed him and she cursed herself.  
She cursed the way her heart had thundered and fluttered like a caged bird against her ribs on that last morning, when she woke up wrapped in his embrace. She cursed her body and her mind.

\---

 _"They make you swear and swear"_ , she felt she had never truly understood his words before the moment he showed up at the inn. What had happened in King's Landing had been disheartening, but still it didn't force her to _choose_.

Their conversation at the Dragon Pit had been awful, the queen's glare had been even more awful - the way he had looked at her when they sat under Cersei's icy stare had been... not awful, but awkward as hell.  
She couldn't help loving him, couldn't help thinking of him often during the days and always during the nights, but Jaime was the commander of the Lannister army, she was Lady Sansa's sworn sword, and there was nothing that could be changed, the few harsh word he said to her confirmed it. It was upsetting, but, again, maybe what was between them - trust, respect, friendship? she didn't even know how to name it - whatever it was, it was one-sided, and she had just made a fool of herself.  
Yet, when Tyrion Lannister eventually managed to talk some sense into the queen, and she came back to the Pit promising to send help, Brienne thanked the Seven that they weren't going to fight against each other. _"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."_ , Jaime had said in Riverrun.  
She packed in her mind his image in the arena, behind his sister: his jaw set, his head held high, his stance so different from the last time she saw him after the siege, more than a year before, when he waved her goodbye from the distance, forlorn. At Cersei's side, he stood as imperious as the queen, but while she looked utterly impassive, he was a bundle of nerves and radiated suppressed anger - a tamed lion, a lion anyway. And, in the end, again, confusingly, she caught a glimpse of something else in his eyes (no, his twin this time was a step ahead of him and didn't notice): a relief similar to her own.  
She was going to meet him soon in Winterfell, at the head of his army, golden and gorgeous, strong in spite of his maiming. He would probably be detached and cross, but maybe they were going to fight together during the battles. That was everything she could sensibly hope - they weren't high hopes, but she was done with wishing for things she could never have.

Jaime, Jaime, Jaime, the man who treated her so coolly just a week before was the same who plopped down on the bench of that humble tavern planning how to save her life. His brusqueness at the meeting had been a way to protect her, Brienne realised it in that moment. Looking closely, he was more grey than golden, but no matter the lines that aged his chiselled face, the stubble, the tiredness due to the hard ride: his eyes shone in a way that made her heart go wild.  
She had been immediately aware that coming North alone was a dangerous hazard for him. Apprehension had besieged her while she fought by his side, while she observed with amazement how skilled he had grown with his left, how natural it felt to stand together against a common enemy. Later, his troubles became a painful certainty, when he explained Cersei's treason.

Brienne felt so upset that she had barely been able to talk to him during the following days.  
_"So many vows"_ , she couldn't shake his words off her head.  
When they finally spoke, that night, she was in turmoil. She knew she couldn't avoid him forever.  
They argued, of course they did - it seemed they simply couldn't do without - but that was not the point.  
Jaime. She did know his name. She did know him.  
He still was her Jaime - even if he wasn't _hers_ -, the man she went through the Seven Hells with, the man who saved her and trusted her more than anyone else. He could be irksome, insolent, reckless, and brave, honest, caring.  
His voice shifted from wrath to despair when he mentioned his sister - his queen, his other half, the mother of his children, the woman she never stood a chance to compete with, the woman he loved. The woman he left to keep a promise, to do the right thing.  
His eyes could be so warm that she almost felt like melting under his gaze - she would have melted if he had touched her cheek as he was about to do.

When she lay down to sleep, she had already made her choice.  
She was the one who had wanted to prove him that he had honor, no matter how much he tried to disguise it. Now he was risking his life - again - to do something honorable, and she was not going to let him get killed in Winterfell, even if it meant breaking her vows to her liege lady, and fighting for him. Even if it meant giving her life for him.

He had chosen honor over love. His arms around her while he slept dreaming about his sister, Brienne had been even more certain she couldn't do the same. His pulse, his warmth, his breath, she just _couldn't_ give him up. He was not going to love her in return, and she would go against a sacred oath, it didn't matter, it didn't matter at all, as long as he stayed alive.  
The strength of his hold to which she abandoned herself if only for a moment, the hardness of his crotch firmly nestled against her buttocks - what if she begged him to take her, to keep his eyes closed and fuck her senseless pretending to be with someone else? Oh, everything would have been much easier if she truly were his whore, like those men had branded her, if he were the despicable man most people believed him to be, yet they weren't.  
Jaime woke up with a startle, she feigned a deep slumber. He recoiled swiftly.

When he came back to the camp and explained his change of plans, she felt totally helpless. She knew she couldn't follow him to the Twins - he knew she knew - she couldn't guard him from his own army, from his sister's enraged grasp, and he had been so firm and assertive that she didn't dare to question his decision. Yet, somehow, it felt like it was her fault.

\---

Therefore, if her mood had been sour since the inn, now it was sourer.

Pod, instead, was beaming, carrying the sword Jaime gave him before he headed to the Twins.  
He said that in Winterfell they needed Valyrian steel much more than he did at the Frey mansion, and if he ended up rotting in a dungeon, at least his blade wouldn't go wasted. Podrick at first got embarrassed and was reluctant to accept it - Jaime joked that he had taken after his lady -, in the end they agreed that the lad would just borrow Widow's Wail until Jaime arrived in Winterfell. Jaime secured at his hips a plain weapon they retrieved from one of the Gold Cloaks, before going away. He didn't say goodbye. He didn't turn back.

The boy and Clegane had settled back to their usual routine, and Brienne had followed them absentmindedly, almost unheeding of their surroundings, of the snow that started to fall again slowing them down, of the growing chill and moisture when they were forced to leave the forest and go back to the Kingsroad, unless they wanted to lose themselves in the insidious bogs of the Neck. On the second evening, it was Clegane himself who offered to Pod to spar, since she hadn't done it for almost a week. He answered to her anxious look promising not to be too harsh with the lad, and kept his word as much as possible, leaving her to her musings - and just a few bruises on Podrick after their training sessions.  
Brienne had been a bit suspicious when the man, after some days riding with the Dothraki, approached and asked her bluntly if they were going to be stuck with the snail pacing Essosi cunts, or they'd better speed up. It sounded like a peace offering. They had already failed to kill each other once, and they both knew they wouldn't try again.  
In hindsight, he had been a great travel companion. Rude, introvert and foul mouthed, he still was far better than most of the anointed knights she had met in the years - and she was quite sure that they wouldn't have made it against the Gold Cloaks without his help. She had long since decided she would never call him _"Hound"_ anymore.

\---

"Have you ever seen impossible things, boy?" An now, of all days, Sandor Clegane decided that he was going to be _talkative_ , or maybe he was just tired of her gloomy silence. "Well, I can count up to five, by now. I saw a man coming back from death after I killed him. I saw the motherfuckin' dragons with the motherfuckin' Mother of Dragons. I saw things in the fire. I saw the goddamned Army of the Dead. And I saw Jaime fuckin' Lannister falling in love with your lady. Who knows if I'll be able to reach seven, who knows. I might see the fuckin' Wall melting down, or I might see someone looking at me the way he looks at her..."  
Brienne turned abruptly and shouted "Stop it!"  
He did stop, and averted his gaze under her scrutiny, searching some other impossible thing between the bushes and the roots of the trees that skirted the causeway. Brienne realised that he, in turn, had got lost in some painful thoughts, something he surely wasn't going to share with them. "Stop mocking me, Clegane." She said, a bit less brusquely.  
"I'm not mocking you, I'm envying you, Tarth." He murmured, distractedly. Then he looked again at her, with sorrowful eyes. "The night is dark, and cold and full of terrors, woman, and if you're lucky enough to find someone who wants to warm you up, you'd better hang on to him. Or to her." He added in a whisper, and she knew he was talking again about himself and some long gone girl hiding on the ground beneath leaves and branches.  
"He doesn't want to warm _me_ up, anyway." She said, feeling a deep pang of empathy towards the big, ugly, broken-hearted warrior. Clegane shook his head, but before he could retort, Pod broke his embarrassed silence, pointing his arm in the distance in front of them, where trunks were more sparse. "I think we're close to the Moat, my lady."

\-----

Moat Cailin emerged from a thick mantle of snow in the distance, but it wasn't the weather they should worry about.  
The afternoon was turning quickly into twilight, and some bonfires lit the valley at the foot of the old abandoned keep. Maybe it was for the best, Brienne thought. Now she couldn't avoid to focus on something else, something that wasn't _him_.  
According to Podrick, their banners might be Frey's ones, but they were too distant and the light was too dim to identify them exactly. They agreed to stop for the night. In the morning, they would get close enough to figure out whose camp it was and to establish if they could safely pass beside the ruins. The other option was to cross the swamplands - the snow coated swamplands - and none of them was thrilled at the prospect. They built up a small shelter, ate dried meet and put on each and every layer of wool and fur they had, to rest without lighting a fire.

Clegane shook her shoulder roughly and silenced her with a finger on his lips as soon as she opened her eyes. "Twenty." He mouthed in the dark. She glanced with apprehension at Podrick, still sleeping at her side, then nodded and stood, unsheathed Oathkeeper noiselessly.  
The arrow hissed so close that it ruffled her hair, plunging on a tree behind her.  
"Put down your swords." The voice was a murmur but perfectly audible in the silence of the night. By the footsteps approaching, Clegane had counted them right.  
"All the three of you." This time it spoke louder, it was a young lad's voice, or maybe a woman's. Brienne turned to see Pod standing at her side, both his hands grasping Widow's Wail's hilt and pointing the sword on his left, where slowly some figures came up from the shadows. "I won't ask again." The one who spoke was lean and short, probably a little boy or a girl indeed. By the stance of his shoulders, he had already notched another arrow onto his bow, and was still too far from them to reach him with their swords. Clegane grunted and let go of his weapon.  
Brienne moved slowly, placing the sword by her feet and standing again. Pod remained motionless for another, endless moment, then stick his blade on the ground with a swift movement that made Brienne flinch, and suddenly moved towards their enemies with his hands up - she didn't have the time to shout, another bolt whistled in the darkness and stopped at one inch from the lad's feet. Pod halted, watched the feathers on the stick of the arrow intently, then raised his head with a smile, and Brienne wondered what madness had possessed him.  
"Lady Meera! It's me, us, Podrick Payne and Lady Tarth, we met at Winterfell." The boy said aloud. "Green and black, the Reed's colours, and I was certain I had heard that voice before." He explained in a whisper. "For the Gods' sake, Pod! I almost shot you!" The young woman closed the distance between them and greeted her squire with an embrace, then turned toward Brienne and hugged her as well. The other Crannogmen - almost thirty of them - emerged from the shadows and joined them.  
"We thought you were further South." Meera explained. "And after the carnage at the Twins some Frey loyalists set their camp down in the valley a couple of weeks ago. Pick up your things, we'll reach the rest of our men and head together to Winterfell through the swamps."  
"We don't need an escort, girl." Clegane chimed in abruptly - more out of pride than out of sense, because they actually would need the Crannogmen's help to cross the frozen marsh.  
"No, ser, we won't escort you." Meera went on without batting an eye. "House Reed has been called to arms from Lady Stark. The raven came two days ago. The southerners won't send the army they promised, so she's summoned all her bannermen to Winterfell."  
"Are you coming as well, my lady?" Pod asked with concern.  
Meera frowned, glanced between him and Brienne, her mood turned darker. "Of course she's coming, lad, she's our commander!" One of the other men answered, patting heavily Pod's shoulder.  
While the marched silently through the woods and then followed a hidden path in the swamp, Brienne felt her nerves loosening and a wave of relief filling her.  
The messages of the queen's treason had been sent from the Twins, and that meant that her father had been warned as well, and that Jaime was alive.  
She prayed they both were safe.

They reached the Reed's camp before sunrise. Shelters were erected over wooden rafts, and damp crept deep into their bones. Brienne and Clegane walked awkwardly through the low branches due to their height and weight. Meera made sure to keep a pace they could follow easily, if nothing else to avoid Clegane's further complaints, since the man kept on raving about the moss and the rust that were growing inside their armours.  
They were allowed to rest for some hours in one of the small huts, and for the first time after months, Brienne dreamed of her island.  
They took their leave before noon.

"It's good to have found you, Lady Brienne." Meera said, while they advanced in single file along a narrow path in the wetlands.  
"I'm glad you did, too. And I hope you'll forgive Podrick for his poor taste this night, we didn't expect to find you at the head of an army of a thousand."  
"Oh, I know Pod was just worried. Your squire has a gentle soul. My father fell ill some moons ago, and he's still too weak to lead our men. Some of them remained in Greywater Watch, to defend the castle. Though, if what I saw beyond the Wall should ever come south, our whole forces won't be enough to keep us safe."  
Brienne had never met Howland Reed, and she wondered if somehow he could resemble her own father, at least because he trusted his daughter enough to lead his army on a battlefield.  
She thought back at the way men had always sneered at her, and felt grateful that Lady Reed had been spared everything she had had to endure from her comrades - as far as she had learned, the girl had gone through another kind of ordeal, and when Meera left Winterfell some time before, something weird was surely going on between her and Bran, therefore coming back to the Starks' keep was going to be hard enough for her.

Pod, who walked some yards ahead behind Clegane, turned towards them with a warm grin. Meera was right: the boy was good hearted and kind - maybe too kind for such a war.  
The convoy made its way through the swamp more quickly than Brienne expected, the marsh men led the way through it securely, and on the second day they were North of the Neck. From there on, the snow was so thick that they kept going on by foot, using the Crannogmen's sleds and snowshoes until they reached again the Kingsroad.

\-----

When he was about to sneak out from their tent the third time, they were one day ride from Winterfell. Brienne sat up and quietly called him. He stood still for a moment, then sighed and turned. The darkness didn't allow her to see his face, but she was quite sure he was blushing. "She's a highborn lady, a commander and the heir of her house, are you aware of it, Pod?"  
"Yes, my lady. And I mean no disrespect to her." His voice was calm and steady. He didn't stutter. "But is it so wrong trying to be happy as long as we are still alive?" He paused, lowered his head, twisted his feet uncomfortably. "I know it's likely we won't be alive much longer."  
"No, Pod. It ain't wrong. Just... be careful, both of you."  
The young man nodded. He turned again towards the entrance of the tent, then stopped again. "My lady..."  
"Yes, Podrick?"  
He inhaled deeply, the same way he did when they started sparring and he prepared himself to stand against her blows. "It's not wrong. Not even for you." Then he stormed out.  
Brienne couldn't tell how long she remained awake, staring at the fabric of the tent and listening to the wind that howled outside from it like a caged beast - like the lad's words in her head. When she woke up in the morning, Pod slept peacefully in his bedroll.

\-----

Winterfell gates opened creaking.  
Sansa stood in the middle of the courtyard, Lord Royce and Lord Glover already at her side, while silently the others northern lords gathered behind her.  
Her siblings were nowhere to be seen, and neither was Petyr Baelish.  
The lady greeted Meera heartily, then asked one of her bannermen to help the Crannogmen soldiers to camp outside the walls, and one of the servants to provide a room for their lady.  
When she turned toward Brienne, something shifted in her mood, but the oddest thing was the way her eyes widened when she set them on Clegane. "What the hell is the Hound doing up there?" Lord Cerwyn voiced his liege lady's question.  
The man just snorted and dismounted his horse, then approached them - Sansa stopped waving her hand the ones that were already unsheathing their weapons.  
"Can't call you _"child"_ anymore, lady Stark." He said, bowing his head. Now it was Brienne's turn to be surprised: he had never told her that he knew Sansa as well as Arya.  
"And I can't call you _"Hound"_ , ser, since I prefer not to hear that word more than it's strictly necessary." Brienne flinched, thinking back at Bolton's dogs.  
"I'm no knight."  
"Who do you serve?" Sansa's glare was unwavering, but the man was not one to be daunted.  
"I didn't come to serve, I came to fight." He shrugged.  
Sansa nodded. Her face was impassive, but her voice held the hint of a smile when she answered. "Welcome in Winterfell, then. We'll have a war council in a couple of hours."

\-----

Brienne was summoned immediately to one of her lady's chambers, Sansa met her alone and brought her up to date without beating around the bush: Bran had seen the Wall collapsing at Eastwatch two weeks before, and their enemy moving South. They would discuss everything else thoroughly at the meeting with the bannermen.  
"What I need to know, Brienne, is what should I do of these." Sansa said coldly, tossing her two scrolls through the mahogany table and gesturing toward a chair. Brienne sat clumsily. She hadn't even had the time to get off her armour.

The first one held a Lannister seal, the other a fish jumping over two stylised waves.

Jaime's message was short and neatly written by someone else's hand, he had just scribbled his signature at the end. It contained all the information Brienne already knew, and informed Sansa that a part of the Lannister army was going to come North anyway - a thousand men already at the Twins, other two thousands were expected to converge there in a week from the Riverlands, and then they would need another fortnight to reach the northern armies. Some others would come from further West, but they were going to remain under the Neck to secure the passage South for the refugees. It ended with a plea to Sansa to accept the help and to treat the Lannister men with respect, considering that they were risking their lives and facing the allegation of being traitors of the throne. He just pleaded for them, not for himself.

Lord Edmure Tully's letter was way, way longer and started with a rambling rant about how the Lannisters, and the Kingslayer most of all, had gone crazy and were _"ambiguous and unpredictable"_. He wrote that the man had threatened to throw his firstborn with a trebuchet against the walls of Riverrun to make him give up the castle, and then had sent the child together with his mother back to the Riverlands and away from Casterly Rock before the battle with the Unsullied, providing and extremely careful and adept escort that had kept on guarding them when they arrived at their family manor.  
And now as they met at the Twins - Tully and his wife had been accompanied there to attend at a meeting with the remaining branches of Lady Roslin's family - he had promised to give back to him the same bloody castle the Lannisters had sieged for months, if he granted that the Tully forces followed his army North to help Sansa in the war against the Night King.  
The man had then spent two days discussing with his officers and sending and awaiting ravens, had provided that every woman and child were sent South to Riverrun, and on top of that had betrothed that crass sellsword of his with the eldest unmarried daughter of Walder Frey, saying something cryptic about _"earning two castles rather than one"_.  
In the end, as Edmure prepared himself to travel with the Lannister army as soon as his own men arrived from Riverrun, the Kingslayer left in charge both this Bronn and one of his generals and headed off alone, to reach Winterfell.  
So, as his niece could judge herself, the whole situation was utterly confusing and he advised her not to give credence to the word of an oathbreaker until she actually saw the army.

"You already read what happened. So what do you want to know from me, my lady?" Brienne asked after placing both the pieces of parchment carefully on the table.  
"I know what but I don't know _why_." Sansa looked at her sideways. It was her way of judging people. "We already had a traitor executed, I need to know if I'm allowing another one to enter my gates."  
Brienne surveyed the room. She understood. Sansa's silences, her omissions were as important - sometimes more important - than her words. She had learned it through the years. In this, the young woman was far different from both her mother and her sister.  
"I had always warned you against Lord Baelish, my lady. I don't think you have anything to fear from Ser Jaime Lannister, nor from his men as long as they're loyal to him." Sansa kept on watching intently at a point near to Brienne's right shoulder, then slowly turned her head and finally met her eyes. "As for the reason, I can read a man's acts, not his thoughts. So you'll have to ask him directly."  
Sansa weighed her up for a long while.  
"You can go, now, Brienne." She said calmly. "Come back in a hour, I need you all for the council."  
Brienne stood, and nodded. She hesitated with her hand on the knob. "Lady Sansa. Am I allowed to use the rookery?"  
"What for?"  
"I haven't written to my father for a long time."  
Sansa looked at her suspiciously, but then just lowered her head. "Fine." She murmured.  
Brienne knew everything she wrote was going to be inspected before it left the castle. But she didn't mind. She was not going to reveal any secret nor to give away any kind of information. The Wall had melted down, impossible things were happening, and she had to start to say her goodbyes.

 

 


	4. Brienne 2 - arrivals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not watching series 8 for now, even if I'm not immune from spoilers. Anyway, I have planned this story for months but I didn't have the time to write it down before (bad timing, I know), so I'll go on with what I had already imagined...

The horn blowed once, two days later.

To signal incoming guests, they had set out a code similar to the one used at Castle Black: one blow for the smaller groups, two for the large ones and the armies. Three, everyone dreaded the moment they would hear it.  
After Bran's vision, they hadn't been able to track down exactly the Night King's path. The Starks sent a raven to Castle Black, warning the Night's Watch to evacuate Mole Town, and tried to alert the closest strongholds. Young Lady Karstark pleaded to to be allowed to take shelter in White Harbour with her people and probably sailed away from Karhold as soon as the Manderly agreed, yet they hadn't heard back from the Umbers at Last Hearth. Most of the other houses were gathering in Winterfell. Jon and the Dragon Queen's fleet had already docked at the Harbour, but the Essosi armies weren't ready yet to fight in the cold, so they probably would reach them in one week or two.  
Brienne had been told that Snow and Daenerys came to Winterfell once, on the day they arrived in the North. The dragons landed out of the gates, their huge wings shadowing the weak light of the wintery sun. No one, not even Sam, knew what the two discussed with the Stark siblings, but Tarly reported that everyone's mood when they left was somber - even Arya, that had awaited keenly to meet again her brother, was upset, and remained on the ramparts alone staring at the valley long after the big beasts disappeared on the horizon. "I dare say she looked happier when she met the H... Clegane." The guy had added, while he tended the wounds of a child that got injured on the training yard. "I mean, as happy as Arya can be..."

Brienne watched the small black figure approaching from the furthest southern corner of the vast white expanse. This rider was alone - quite unusual, most of the refugees came up in small coveys - that was why the lookout had sent for her. "Do we have to stop him halfway, Lady Brienne?" The lad asked.  
"No, Matti. Let him reach the castle. His horse seems deathly tired. Send someone to fetch him if the mount stops, or if it collapses." She called the other sentry. "Don, go to the Lady's solar. Tell her that Ser Jaime Lannister is arriving."  
Brienne swallowed down a tear, and hoped the guys didn't notice, or at least that they might think it was due to the freezing air that blowed between the merlons.

When he reached the first tents of the armies that surrounded the keep and she lost sight of him between the busy swarm of soldiers and workers of the camp, Brienne made her way to the gate. Two dozens armed guards stood at the ready, while the Stark sisters awaited on the stilted walkway. Sansa addressed her a knowing look. What will you do of my feelings, my lady, Brienne asked silently, now that you can't use them to your own advantage?

Jaime was pulling out his right glove with his hand and his teeth when they opened the heavy wooden portal. He quickly removed the woollen scarf that he had wrapped around his head. Some snowflakes got stuck on his eyebrows, his hair was tousled, his clothes thick but worn. They had parted less than two weeks ago, yet he had grown thinner and his stubble had grown longer. He looked half frozen and exhausted. His eyes shone as they spotted her.  
The guards knocked him down from the horse unceremoniously and took away his weapons. "Someone should take care of that poor beast!" She heard him shouting while they dragged him to the great hall. Podrick had appeared at her side - she hadn't even noticed -, his hands clenched on Widow's Wail hilt mirrored her own on Oathkeeper. "Not the right time to give him back his sword." He commented bitterly. "I'll take the horse to the stables, if it doesn't die first." He added, moving swiftly to the gates with a decided stride. Brienne thought back for a moment at the lumpish child that had left King's Landing plodding on his saddle, then sighed heavily and followed the crowd inside the hall.

She took her usual seat in the aisle, at the foot of the dais, facing Lady Mormont. Clegane sat down beside her, in Pod's spot, without saying a word, as he had done when he had reached her and her squire for the meals ever since they arrived at the castle. A couple of times, Arya joined the three of them and the other Stark soldiers who gathered around Brienne, and they all would slowly fall into some idle small talk about everyday tasks, sword fighting, about the fortifications that they were building outside the castle walls, about legends, weather and journeys, and for some blissful moments they all forgot the impending doom and the little Lady Stark was again a young girl with a soft spot for adventure, just like Brienne once had been. Before leaving her home. Before Renly. Before Jaime.

Now, Arya pushed forward her brother's wheelchair and then took her place next to Sansa on the main armchairs, dangerous and hard-faced.  
And Jaime, whose actions and whose family had had such a huge part in destroying their innocence, was shoved in front of them by the guards, and forced to kneel. He didn't try to resist nor to stand up.  
"Lady Stark." He greeted Sansa, his voice was weary - not for the trip, Brienne could tell: she saw him scoffing at his captors after being in irons for months, she remembered the days she had spent taking care of him after he lost his hand, his cynical bitterness, his overwhelming despair. He was different, now. Quieter. It was the voice of a man who gave up fighting not because he lacked courage, but because he had come to terms with himself.

Sansa's stare was as cold as the Land of Always Winter. "I received my uncle's message and yours, still I can't fathom why you're here, Kingslayer."  
"I promised to fight..."  
"Why you're in Winterfell _now_." She didn't let him finish his sentence. "Why you came alone. Couldn't you wait, and ride up here with the army you gathered? If there is any army at all..."  
Jaime swallowed, biting his tongue, before answering. "It's not as big as I hoped, but the army _will_ come, my lady. As for me, I had a personal matter to settle, and I didn't want it to... interfere with the help you'll receive from the Lannister men."  
Sansa sniggered, Brienne braced herself, Jaime steadied his voice. "I've been... summoned by your brother, Lady Stark."  
"King Jon is still in White Harbour." She replied resentfully, but Arya placed a hand on her armrest and pointed towards Bran, who had been silent all the time. Sansa stared at her brother, if she was pissed off she hid it well. Besides, in the castle everyone was used to what Bran had become, to his odd way of knowing and sharing things. "You did?"  
Bran nodded. "I need to talk to him about the things he did for love, and about the things he will do." His tone was inexpressive as usual, his words obscure, but Jaime's face fell. What the boy said clearly had a hidden meaning that he understood far too well. "Fine, let's get it over with." He stated, looking Bran in the eye.  
"No, we won't discuss it now. We will, in due time. By then, it's up to the Lady of Winterfell to decide what to do with you."  
The hall erupted into chaos. Two or three lords raised at once from their seats to advise Sansa of what she should do, others followed, some of them started arguing. Jaime, still kneeling, suppressed a smirk. They kept on making a mess, until Arya stood and beat her hand on the table. As soon as the men saw her, the shouting became a chatter, then a whisper, then it faded out completely.  
"One at a time." The girl stated, then nodded to one of the bystanders.  
"We all know what this man did to your family and to the North, my lady. We all know that he has a shit of honor." Brienne gritted her teeth, moved her hand to grab her sword, but Clegane was faster and seized her forearm. His glare shouted _"don't do anything stupid"_ , she lowered her hand but the man didn't let her go. "I regret that your brother didn't kill him when he had the opportunity." Lord Glover asserted. "But now you can avenge your parents and your brothers, Lady Sansa, an I hope you'll do it."  
"As far as I remember, Lord Glover, he actually didn't have any part in my parents death, and King Jon and I do agree that a man should be charged for his crimes, not for his family's ones."  
"Then we're spoilt for choice my lady..." Lord Mazin sneered. "Kingslayer, oathbreaker, sisterfucker..."  
"He's a Lannister, isn't this enough?" A woman yelled from the furthest part of the room, where most of the small folk had assembled, and Pod stood glancing uncomfortably at Lady Meera, who sat silently not far from him.  
" _We_ are not Lannisters." A shrill voice silenced the jeering. Thank the Gods for Lyanna Mormont and her sternness. "We should give him a fair trial, my lady." The girl concluded her reasoning.  
"Nothing better than a good trial by combat, then! He's one of the best swordsman in the realm, isn't he?" Someone scoffed right behind Brienne's shoulders.  
"My lady." Clegane got distracted, and Brienne seized the moment to stand up and take the floor. Jaime watched her with a plea in his eyes, so she averted her gaze and looked up at Sansa. "My lady, this man..." She breathed deeply, this wasn't the time to be awkward. "This man sent me to find you when you fled from King's Landing, and entrusted me with bringing you back safely to your home. He went against his sister's will to make sure that I could fulfil the vow I made to your mother. But you already know all of this." Sansa's nod was small and haughty. The lady knew as well that Jaime had saved Brienne's life more than once, but their audience wouldn't care at all about that. "About the sins Lord Mazin listed, none of them was against your house." Strictly speaking, it was not a lie, yet Brienne didn't dare to rise her eyes towards Bran. In the hall, an old man's voice spoke distinctly the name of the lady's grandfather - she didn't need to remind to these people what the Mad King had done to Lord Eddard's kin. It gave her courage. "If you want to blame him because he fought against your brother during a war, well... we're at war again, now. And this time we all fight on the same side, as long as we still breathe." She ended, moving her gaze from Sansa to Clegane while she quoted his words.  
She felt drained, but kept on standing. The crowd's murmur was not entirely hostile anymore. This was all she could do with her words, for all the rest of it she would probably need her sword.  
The siblings looked at each other in silent agreement. Jaime's head was bent down, his shoulders slouched, he seemed to be somewhere else, far away, as if it wasn't his life they were discussing. Brienne hoped that he would look again at her. She had never missed his eyes like in this moment. But he raised his gaze to Sansa, instead.  
"Kingslayer." Brienne forgot how to breathe, she almost didn't feel Clegane's hand when it went back to her wrist.  
"You'll have a trial by combat, Ser. You'll have it when the Army of the Dead arrives. You'll fight against them. If you survive, then we'll consider your debts paid."  
Jaime seemed almost at loss for words.  
"Until that moment, you are free to move within the castle and around it. You'll be allowed to take part to the councils and to give your opinion on strategies. Military experience is something we can't afford to reject in these days."  
"Thank you, Lady Stark."  
The crowd murmured, Sansa went on. "You try to leave Winterfell without our permission, you die. You try to contact either your sister or her allies, you die. You conspire against us, you die. You cause any trouble, you'll be locked up and punished."  
Jaime nodded. "Since Lady Brienne vouched so vehemently for you, it'll be up to her to guard you. And if you betray our trust, she'll share your fate." The last sentence made him jump to his feet. "No!" He shouted. "No, please! You can't put the blame on the lady for my deeds! Please!"  
Clegane's grip on her wrist tightened when the guards quickly seized Jaime, until he stopped fretting.  
"Don't push your luck, Kingslayer." Arya said coldly.  
He lowered his head. "My apologies, Lady Stark." His mood was docile again and his words polite, but something in his tone still betrayed his rage.  
Some of the lords started to chatter in a hushed voice, Clegane almost dragged Brienne down to her seat.  
"Lord Mazin." Sansa spoke again, to the group that still whispered. "If any of you provokes him or harms him, if any of you lies to accuse him of something, I will know. And I won't tolerate it." She searched across the room until she met the eyes of one of the kitchen maids. "Fanny, bring us some bread and salt." Neither Jaime nor the northern lords had expected this. "You all remember what happened to the Freys, don't you?" She said, smirking slightly at her sister. The servant rushed to the pantry, while the Stark bannermen sat down again, resigned.

The bread was stale and the entire hall remained hushed while Jaime's teeth crunched it, the sound of his throat when he gulped it almost echoed through the walls. He thanked the lady again.  
Afterwards, Sansa dismissed them all, and Brienne found herself hurrying down in a corridor, trying to put as much distance as she could between herself and what had just happened in the hall.  
It was not just her heart that pounded in her ears - footsteps, she realised it too late, someone grabbed her arm and turned her abruptly. Her back thumped on the wall and she had her dagger in her hand before she could even think. Jaime's breath was laboured, he held back his tears. She lowered her weapon and he came closer, trapping her against the bricks.  
"Damn it, Brienne!"  
All the fury he had hidden in front of the Starks was back, he was shaking, she thought that maybe it was just his anger that kept him standing, since he was clearly worn out both from the ride and the trial.  
She swallowed, blinked, he stood just inches from her face, pressing her while she tried to move back and avoid the contact, lest he fell on her, and then he would feel her, her frantic heartbeat, her fear - lest he leaned on her and she did something _really_ stupid.  
"I asked you, I begged you not to..."  
"I didn't agree to it, as far as I recall." She stated as boldly as she could.  
"Damn!" He cursed again. "You're pigheaded to the point of madness!"  
"Do you mean to turn against Lady Sansa's orders, or to flee?"  
"You know I don't." He hissed, still keeping his eyes so close to hers that she could count the small speckles of gold around his pupils, in the dim light of the corridor.  
"Then I don't risk anything, and you are free to move in the castle. To me, it seems a good deal."  
He winced, and was about to speak again when someone cleared his throat behind them. He moved away, setting her free, and Brienne felt her face burning under Arya Stark's scrutiny.  
"Is our _guest_ already annoying you, Brienne?"  
She was about to mumble some excuse, but the girl turned to Jaime.  
"Beware, Kingslayer. If anything bad happens to Brienne because of you... There are still empty slots in my list."  
"Lady Arya, everything is fine, he wasn't bothering me..."  
"What is this, Lady Stark?" Jaime talked, almost shouted, over Brienne's pitiful babbling. "Some kind of joke? Your sister..."  
"My sister saved your life, without even asking you to pledge your loyalty."  
"Because nobody would've believed it anyway. She's learned well, down in the capital." Jaime realised, with a bitter intuition.  
"She's learned it the hard way. We all did." Of course Arya spoke about herself and her family, but Jaime's right arm shifted, as if he tried to remember how it felt to have his hand still attached there.  
"What list of yours you'd put me in, Lady Stark?" He asked.  
"The list of people I'd kill." She said harshly, and Brienne felt a shiver down her spine.  
Jaime's smirk didn't reach his eyes, and his voice wasn't ironic. "You'd better list the ones you'd _die for_ , girl. That is the only list that matters."  
"And who'd you die for, Kingslayer? Yourself? Or that bitch of your sister?" Arya retorted stonily.  
"Don't..."  
"I'll insult her as much as I..."  
"Free to insult, I couldn't care less. But don't presume to know whom I'd give my life for." They kept facing each other, none of them lowering their eyes. But something in his gaze apparently convinced the girl, because in the end she took a step back, and moved her hand from her hip. Brienne realised with a start that Arya had been holding her dagger's hilt all the time.  
The young lady watched over their shoulders, towards the open door that led to the main yard, then shouted a name. A boy followed her voice and entered the corridor, squinting his eyes when he stepped forward in the darker hallway. "Lady Arya?"  
"Take ser Jaime Lannister with you, find him a room on his own. If there aren't free ones anymore, even an empty cell would do, as long as he's not staying with any northerner. Guess he'll need some rest." The boy eyed Jaime dubiously, but nodded and motioned him to follow.  
"My ladies." Jaime bowed his head seeing them off. Brienne was still too shaken to answer.

Arya stood beside her silently, until Jaime exited in the courtyard and disappeared in the grey winter light, walking behind the young squire. When she spoke again, her tone was softer, almost shy.  
"You know you can't trust a Lannister."  
"I don't trust a Lannister, my lady. I trust _him_."  
"Is it just because of his pretty face?" Brienne sighed and shook her head. Of course, if Sansa knew Arya did as well, and yet she found it easier to talk about this with her than with her older sister. "When I first met him he wasn't less handsome than he is now, and I loathed him wholeheartedly back then. But he is... Did you ever meet someone that is... much more than he is supposed to be, more than his name, more than his lineage?"  
The girl surprised her again, cutting her off with a sad tone that sounded deeply out of place on her mouth. "I did. But to him _I_ wasn't more than my name." She added, more to herself than to Brienne. "I'll give him a chance. The Kingslayer, I mean." She announced, then slipped away quietly as she had arrived, leaving Brienne with a faint hope that maybe, all things considered, Jaime was going to be safer than she had thought.

\-----

The next days passed like an odd sort of dream, and Brienne kept on wondering when she would wake up.  
Lady Sansa's calculation didn't entirely mollify her bannermen, but at least it set a fragile truce.  
Most of the lords simply ignored or avoided Jaime, some of them whispered maliciously behind his back, but loud enough for him to hear. He simply kept his head bent down and pretended not to mind.

The morning after his arrival, he showed up in the hall wearing the same dark clothes he had on the previous day, but had cleaned himself and looked less weary. He didn't put on his golden hand.  
One of the cooks served him grudgingly a bowl of soup and some bread. Brienne kept on watching him until he saw her and cautiously made his way towards the same table where she sat, with a sheepish grin on his face.  
"May I?" He asked. Clegane shifted on the bench to let him sit facing Brienne. As soon as he sat down, some Stark men stood up, took their own bowls and moved away. But other ones remained.  
"You should keep that fuckin' hand on your wrist, Lannister. It might be useful when these northerners decide to punch you."  
Jaime shrugged. "I'm hardly in the position to punch them back anyway, Clegane. And Samwell Tarly strongly recommended to keep it off for some days, unless I want my stump to fester." He added, grimacing. Brienne released a breath. She had insisted that Sam examined him, since maester Wolkan wouldn't do anything but for Sansa's command.  
"Did you see him this morning? It's definitely unusual he didn't join us for the meal!" One of the younger soldier asked, then suddenly realised that he had spoken to the infamous Kingslayer and turned red and scowled, but Jaime answered without hesitation. "I think he won't join us, not today." He sighed. "I... I had to told him about his father and his brother."  
"What happened?" Another lad asked, curiosity prevailing over abashment. Jaime stared at him, baffled. "So it's true nobody knew... They... they died fighting against the Dragon Queen army."  
"Randyll Tarly is dead?!?" This time it was Brienne the one who couldn't keep quiet. Jaime's eyes were sad - and there was a profound tenderness, in the way he looked at her and only at her, that left her speechless all the time. "If you knew him, you know he was a jerk. His son, however, was a kind young man, like Sam..." he trailed off and watched intently at his soup, then pressed his hand on his eyes, trying to rub away something awful from his mind. "Honestly, I thought Daenerys had already told him."  
"Hmpf." A knight of the Vale snorted from the other end of the table. "She barely spoke to the lords, when they came to visit. I wouldn't be surprised she didn't give a damn about the lad."  
"But King Jon is his friend!"  
"I doubt she discusses with the King about the enemies she slew."  
"And still, he did bend the knee."  
"You know, you need to kneel to go down on a girl!" A boy from Torrhen's Square cackled.  
"Lad, language!" Jaime scolded him. "There's a lady listening."  
"But... but she's _Brienne_..."  
"She's a soldier and she's your commander, and she's still a lady, so you'd better hold your tongue."  
"S...sorry, ser." The poor guy stuttered. "And, lady Brienne, I'm sorry, m'lady..."

"I've lived half of my life in a camp. And you are far more foul mouthed than Gavin." She said, when he reached her in the courtyard, afterwards. She kept on watching the children who gathered in a corner, playing with their wooden swords.  
"Instead of telling me things I already know, why don't you enlighten me about what are we supposed to do, today, my lady?" He chuckled.  
Brienne shook her head, suppressing the urge to slap him, or to kiss him just to shut his mouth.  
"I thought things would be more... complicated. The North remembers, but most northern men aren't too biased against you." She thought it would have been harder for her too, to have him near, and yet it felt so natural. It reminded her of some days on their trip from Harrenhal to King's Landing, when they would silently share bread and salted meat, or he would forget his maiming for a moment and tease her lightly and without any cruelty anymore, when they sometimes didn't need words to know what the other was thinking, like old friends. That was what they were again, now: two old friends who cared deeply for each other, and it was much more than she had ever hoped.  
"I dare say they seem to like you."  
"Those men love _you_ and trust _you_ , Brienne. And I..." He stopped suddenly.  
"And what?"  
Jaime remained silent for quite a long time. "And since you vouched for me, they try to accept me. Besides, we're about to face an army of monsters. There's no need to fight each other." She thought that maybe this wasn't what he was going to say at first, but she decided not to push him with further questions.

It wasn't just because of her, of course. He was charming, smart, pragmatic (no surprise that a big part of the Lannister army had disobeyed the queen's orders on his request), and he struggled to restrain both his sarcasm and his arrogance every time he had to deal with some northerner. By the third day, all the sentries remained at the table when he approached, his advice during the meetings was sensible enough to be accepted without questioning his loyalty anymore, and when a raven from the Twins announced that the southern soldiers were finally coming North and would reach Winterfell within ten days, she actually saw Lord Glover addressing directly to Jaime to ask some information.

They spent most of their time together, planning the defences of the fortress, and then training children and women in the late afternoon, when knights and soldiers left the yard and assembled in the halls to drink and talk. Jaime took it upon himself to teach the left-handed ones. He was patient with the small kids and - after the second time a young handmaiden pretended to stumble against him just to rub her breasts on his chest - aloof from the women.

"If the Dead break into the castle, they all will die in any case." Jaime sat on a bench in the icy air of the evening. She tossed the last wooden swords in a trunk and joined him. They both were still heated by the exertion, their breath hovered in small clouds in front of their mouths, his face in the light of the torches was pensive and crestfallen.  
"I know. I've known ever since Lady Sansa gave me this task."  
"Why keep on training them, then?"  
"Because this way they won't feel helpless."  
Jaime looked down at his lap, at the gap his missing hand left on his right knee. "I..." He started but didn't went on.  
"We won't let it happen, Jaime. We won't let them break in." It was more a wish than a reassurance, but he smiled at her warmly anyway.  
"I saw Arya in the practice yard this morning." He said, changing the subject. "She's... amazing."  
"Aye, she is."  
"But she won't stand a chance against the undead with that toothpick. You can't just... stick them. And the blade is too short, she's lithe but it's dangerous to get too close to those things."  
"I'll tell her to be careful, and to try another kind of weapon."  
Jaime nodded, then stood up. "Fine. Let's go inside, it's freezing."  
He offered her his hand to help her up, and didn't let her go immediately. Wool and leather and his hold, strong beneath it, his lips, slightly parted when he sighed. "Jaime." She murmured.  
"Yes?"  
Brienne bowed her head, let go of his hand. "Nothing. Nothing important. Let's go inside." I love you, she had almost said it aloud.

\-----

Queen Daenerys' army was due to arrive in a few days. Bran's visions showed the Night King again, and they had no doubt now that he was heading to Winterfell. About Last Heart, they had given up hope, but a wagon train had been able to travel from Castle Black, therefore they knew that the Army of the Dead wasn't on the Kingsroad: they would probably follow the Last River down South and then try to cross it closer to Dreadfort, to attack from the East.

The people from Castle Black and Mole Town were mostly small folk, some Brothers of the Watch - others were going to come later - and, obviously, wildlings.  
When Tormund Giantsbane dismounted from the first wagon of the convoy, Brienne was standing between Sansa and Podrick, greeting the newcomers, and had to fight her instinct not to flee, hide, and keep hiding until he forgot she ever existed. No such luck: the wildling brightened as soon as he saw her, and immediately sported his most delighted and mischievous smile. Brienne grimaced and tried not to look at him, wondering if it would sound impolite if she excused herself and went back to her chambers. Not that she despised the man, but his fixation with her was embarrassing, almost ridiculous, and she had already had a fair share of people ridiculing her. And, even if his affection seemed totally genuine, he just judged her by her looks, like most people did - he only happened to be fascinated rather than being disgusted by her height and broadness, but, Gods, they had never spoken to each other, and certainly he had no right to elbow one of his companions and to exclaim loudly enough for everyone to hear "I told you, Beric, didn't I? There she is: my big woman!".  
She wasn't _his_ by any means. If she had wanted to become a man's _possession_ , she'd never have picked up a sword, and she would have been married to an old lord on Tarth for ages, now. This is what beautiful women have to endure all the time, she realised: being leered at, and watched and treated and traded like mares, like pieces of meat. It didn't make her feel any better.  
Tormund headed at the foot of the walkway with the men of the Night's Watch and some others, they all payed their respects to Lady Sansa and informed her about those who remained at the Wall. Brienne slowly moved to the side, to put more distance - and Pod as well - between her and the wildling, and was suddenly very, very interested in the people still lingering around the carts, staring at them intently. Anyway, as soon as Sansa dismissed the guests, Tormund turned and was about to stride towards her, but then he stopped. Out of the corner of her eye, Brienne saw a scowl appearing on his brow. His friend smirked and whispered something that made him scowling even more. Then the redhead grunted, returned to the carts and started to give orders to his people, showing them where to settle down.  
Sansa left immediately after, and when Brienne and Pod turned to the staircase behind them to go back to their duties on the ramparts, they almost bumped into Jaime, who stood just a couple of steps above.  
"Oh, Ser Jaime, how long have you been here?" Podrick asked.  
"Long enough." He answered, gritting his teeth. They climbed the stairs together, and slowly his face softened. Brienne kept on looking at the people in the yard.  
"What's wrong?" He said, still walking ahead.  
"Nothing." She was glad she had escaped Tormund's attentions, but she wouldn't tell that to Jaime. But there was something else, something she could easily share with him.  
"I just... you see that man, unloading the cart..."  
They all stopped, watching down at the courtyard.  
"Eerie one, eye patch?"  
"No, the younger one, black hair. I'm trying to figure out where I saw him. I'm quite sure I know him."  
Jaime looked at her quizzically, then back at the young man, then he chortled. "No you don't. I do. But I'll show you why you think you do. Hey you, Street of Steel!" He shouted. Only the black haired guy turned towards them. Jaime's grin became wider, he waved to the lad, then turned back to Brienne. "I've seen him in King's Landing, he used to work in a forge that provided us weapons, when I was in the Kingsguard."  
"Then how would I..."  
"Guess he reminds you of Renly. I bet my hand he's one of Robert's bastards."  
The man had stopped his work and was still staring - but not at her, Pod and Jaime: Arya had arrived on the walkway, a few yards from them.  
Blue eyes gazed at Lady Arya's grey ones like they had just seen the ghost of someone they loved and then realised that it wasn't just a shadow, that she was actually there. Yes, those were Renly's eyes, but Renly had never looked at Brienne in that way - he probably never had looked at any woman in that way, it was - it was.  
It was the way Jaime looked at her.

"My lady." Pod grabbed her arm. "Whatever's going on, they wouldn't want an audience." He said quietly, a small smirk on his lips.  
Jaime had already reached the top of the stairs and was talking to a soldier on the rampart, patting lightly the lad's arm with the golden hand that he had started to wear again.  
What if she were wrong, Brienne wondered, and even if she were right, what good would it do, now, when the Army of the Dead was at their gates?  
Podrick walked ahead of her, and just looking at his shoulders she could tell he was smiling.  
_"It's not wrong"_ , he had said, that night before leaving the tent. Brienne watched fondly at her squire. She didn't know if she would ever give birth to a child on her own, but maybe that was how a mother would feel, when she realised that her son had grown up enough to give her some good advice: blessed, and proud, and scared to death, because Pod wasn't a boy anymore, and she knew she couldn't protect him forever.

\-----

"Get off your fucking arse!" Clegane shouted to a group of soldiers that was taking down their tents. Those who had camped out in the meadow were moving between the inner and outer line of the walls, while the refugees who couldn't fight were to be settled inside the keep. Brienne supervised the southern side with Clegane.  
On the eastern side, Lord Royce was doing the same thing - except for the cursing, maybe.  
Beric Dondarrion, the one eyed man who came back from the Wall with the wildlings, waved at them from the distance, escorting some small folk on a cart. An old woman wrapped up in a red-purple blanket, wrinkled and stooped like the Crone herself, followed riding a donkey. The hag scrutinised the two of them, especially Clegane. He waved back at Dondarrion and pulled a face at the woman, but she didn't flinch. "The old witch is quite brave. I usually scare them without grimacing." Clegane commented acidly.  
"If what they say about Ser Beric is true, I'd be much more scared by him." Brienne offered - and it was the truth: she barely noticed Sandor's scars anymore, when she looked at him, it was just... his face. Dondarrion, instead, was alleged to be almost a wizard, the soldiers said he had been resurrected more than once, and that his sword caught fire during the battles because of a vow he made to the Red God.  
"Though if we had to believe to everything our men say, then I'd have killed a bear bare-handed, and the Frey would've been slaughtered by Lady Catlyn's ghost..."  
Clegane glared at her. "It _is_ true." He stated, and was about to add something else when a shout interrupted them, then Podrick stormed out from the crowd and ran to her.  
"Ser Jaime..." He managed to say when he caught his breath. "He got into a brawl."  
"Where?"  
"In the main yard." Pod sighed.  
"You'd better go, Tarth. These cunts ain't getting any faster anyway."

Pod didn't know exactly what happened, he had heard voices screaming from the hall and, when he had reached the yard, Jaime was already fighting with a young man from Hornwood and a wildling, both of them with knives in their hands.  
Brienne tried to keep calm while they walked hastily to the castle, but when they crossed the main gate, the yard was quiet and almost empty. Matti welcomed her with a smile - why the hell was he smiling?  
"Where's Ser Jaime?" She asked brusquely. "Did they imprison him?"  
The boy looked puzzled, then shook his head, almost laughing. "Oh, no, no m'lady. Actually, he just prevented two squabblers from killing each other. We can't afford to lose any man _before_ the battle, no matter how dumb they are..."  
Brienne rolled her eyes, Pod shrugged. "How would I kn..."  
"Did he get hurt?"  
"Nah, just a black eye and some scratches. Sam sent him to his chamber with some ice, he'll check on him when they're done stitching the two morons."  
"I'll check on him." Her thoughts were out of her mouth before she could stop them, but neither of the lads seemed surprised.

Brienne knocked hesitantly at his door.  
She wasn't supposed to do this, but it was probably the only time she could spend alone with him before the preparations for the battle became too frantic. And she needed to - she didn't even know what she needed to do, she needed to be with him for another while, that was all.  
He was quartered in a tiny room on the same floor as hers. The place had probably been a storage closet before his arrival, but at least he could sleep alone and didn't need to watch his back.  
"Come in, it's open."  
Jaime was sprawled on the bed. The furniture was too small for his size, the room didn't have any window and looked utterly uncomfortable, but he didn't seem to care.  
His left arm cradled his head, and his stump held an ice bag on his eye. One foot on the ground, the other one leaning against the footboard, he looked like a lazy lion - like a slumbering god.  
Since his arrival, he had grown more confident even among his enemies, and for a brief moment she wondered how he must've been in his prime, or at the head of his army, proud and nonchalant, so handsome that he would've taken every woman's breath away. She wouldn't have changed him for anyone else, certainly not for his former, flawless and obnoxious self.  
"Well, Sam, how are those two idiots doing?" He asked, his eyes still closed.  
Brienne felt her lips turning up in an instinctive smile, and the smile echoed in her words. "They are still alive, thanks to you."  
Jaime scrambled up, sitting on the bed, the compress fell on the ground but he didn't try to retrieve it.  
"You'd better pick it up and keep it in place for another hour, at least."  
He snorted, but eventually he bent down, lifted the ice pack from the floor and put it again on his eye.  
"It's just a black eye. I told Tarly as well that there's no need to fuss over it."  
Brienne closed the door and leaned against it.  
"It's an eye you'll need during the battles. We all need to be at our best."  
"We've been rationing food for weeks, I doubt anyone in the castle is at his best." He complained.  
"All the more reason to take care properly of your bruise."  
He sighed again, moved on the bed until his back hit the headboard so he could hold the ice more easily with the stump.  
"Do you really think we can make it, Brienne?"  
"We have to. We must try."  
"If Brandon counted them right, they outnumber us at least five to one, and I'm adding up all the Targaryen army and those who are coming up from the twins. It's almost ten to one if we just consider Winterfell."  
"The fortress has good defences. Wights are strong but mindless. If we focus on White Walkers and..."  
Jaime cackled. She had almost forgotten how obnoxious he _still_ could be. "What's so funny? I thought you've had enough of laughing at me." She spat. He stopped immediately.  
"I didn't mean to... I wasn't mocking you, my lady. It's just... I wish I could be as hopeful as you are."  
His uninjured eye looked at her sadly.  
"You make it sound like I'm a simpleton. Do you really believe I don't know what we're facing? Do you think it would be better to say that we're already doomed?"  
"Brienne, I've led men in battle more times than you did, I know what it's like to cheer up the troops, but it's just you and me in here now. You don't need to..."  
"But I _want_ to! I want to hope, I want you to hope, Jaime, I want you to live!" She suddenly felt she had said too much.  
He lowered his gaze. "I want to hope as well. But If somehow I manage to survive the battles against the undead, I don't think Daenerys Targaryen will be as merciful as your Lady Sansa."  
To this, she didn't know what to reply.

They remained still, silence stretched between them like the dark wing of a dragon, until Jaime moved away the damp bandage from his eye, and stood to place it on the small table on the other side of the room.  
"What do you hope to do, when it's over?" He asked airily, as if their last words had never been spoken. "Where will you go, come spring?"  
"I... I guess... I'd like to go back home, to Tarth."  
Jaime's smile was so soft that she almost felt it caressing her cheek. "Even if it means that I'll have to..." She hesitated. "To settle down once and for all?" He suggested. She nodded. "Well, it sounds like a brilliant plan. I'm sure your red headed wildling would agree..."  
She sharpened her tone, glaring at him with all the contempt she could muster. "I'm not going to marry that man, _Ser_!"  
He laughed, picking up the gauze he used to put beneath the golden hand. He didn't watch at her while he spoke. "Fine, _Lady Brienne_ , I guess I deserved it."  
"Of course you did!" She retorted.  
He left both the cloth and the hand on the table and strode towards her.  
"But I'm glad you're not taking him into consideration. He's not worthy of you."  
"Oh, and who is?" She bit her tongue, lest she added _"you, perhaps?"._  
"I still haven't met a man that really deserves you, my lady."  
"I'd rather have someone I want than someone I deserve, then!" She shouted, gripping her sword belt with both her hands not to push him away.  
"Do you want him?" He had become sad again.  
"No, I don't." She should have said that it was none of his business, but that would've been a lie.  
"I spoke to Bran, yesterday." He blurted, then, out of the blue.  
Brienne raised an eyebrow. She didn't know why he was telling her about that, and she didn't dare to ask.  
"He said he's known for a long time, but he won't tell his sisters until he's certain they'll understand. He said that he doesn't hold a grudge, that if I hadn't crippled him he wouldn't have become who he was meant to be. And he said that now I have to become who I'm meant to be." He lowered his head. "The last one who lectured me like that was my father."  
"And who are you meant to be, Jaime?"  
He chuckled, then turned serious again. "I thought I knew, once, even though I didn't like it too much. Now... now honestly I don't give a damn about who I'm meant to be. But I know whom I want to be with. Maybe it ain't enough for Bran, but it is enough for me."  
His voice was so harsh and determined that it felt almost threatening. Brienne startled, and moved backwards. He raised his right arm, attempted to grab her and stop her from fleeing, but his stump bumped against her shoulder, and he retreated it immediately, a mixture of shame and pain suddenly filling his eyes.  
No, there's nothing you should be ashamed of, she thought, but her body was faster than her own mind because her hand had already reached out and had clutched his scarred wrist. She froze, they both did, a thrill jolted through her veins like the blue light of a thunderbolt - she wondered if he felt the same, and when she raised her eyes from where their limbs were joined, she knew the answer.  
He did. He did feel the same. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. Her, not Cersei, nor anyone else - maybe it was just for the time being, maybe it was just because he was lonely and apart from his sister, and they were about to face death in a few days, but Brienne decided she didn't care. His good hand roamed up on her other arm, paused on her shoulder and then settled down on the back of her head, his fingers stroked the short hair on her nape and caressed her neck. This is real, she thought, holding his stump tighter - her head was spinning, she felt her feet would slowly leave the floor and start floating in the air like the dandelions above the cliffs of her homeland in spring, if his touch didn't keep her grounded - such a silly idea, since it was his touch that made her feel like she was flying in the first place.  
"Brienne." He whispered, and came closer, his voice was shaky, frightened. Closer. He struggled to keep open both his eyes, even the one that was bruised and swollen. Closer, so close that his chest almost brushed hers.

When the door slammed open she almost shrieked. "Oh, shit! S-Ser, m-m-my lady, I'm so-s-s-sorry..." Pod mumbled.  
"What's up?" Jaime asked curtly. He had taken a step backwards but still didn't move his stump from her hand.  
"News from the Sheepshead Hills."  
"Bad news?"  
"I don't know. Lady Sansa called a meeting in the hall." Podrick's voice cracked.

They all knew what it meant: one day, two at most, before they reached the castle. The Dragon Queen army would probably arrive one day too late, and the Lannister one maybe even later.  
Brienne let go of his arm, and they followed Pod silently, walking side by side.  
Now I'm awake, she thought.

 


	5. Jaime 2 - not a goodbye

The farmer was shaking like a leaf when he entered the room and slowly reached the foot of the dais. He clutched nervously his cap, turned briefly to look at his wife and children who waited at the other side of the aisle. The woman addressed to him a tentative smile and he finally found out the courage to speak.  
Jaime smiled as well. The scene reminded him of his arrival in King's Landing from Harrenhal. The man's voice brought him back to the present.  
"M'lady... we... we were already on our way to come here. Our croft is on the south-western side of the hills. We were to cross a bridge on the White Knife, yesterday morning, when we saw them... so we left there the cart and fled as fast as we could. We rode the whole day and the whole night. M'lord..." He turned to Brandon. "You won't remember, but you granted us a cart horse while my eldest sons were fighting with your brother Robb. That horse brought us there. Thank you for saving our lives, m'lord."  
"I do remember." Bran said, unperturbed as usual.  
"So, they followed the river down from the Lonely Hills..." Arya began to say.  
"Oh, no, M'lady! They were coming from East, from Hornwood, about a thousand of them..."  
The northern lords started to whisper, one of them cursed aloud.  
"Lord Hornwood!" Sansa scolded him. "What about your men?"  
The stern-looking man sighed. "We... we abandoned the stronghold a couple of weeks ago. Half of them went south with their families to join your brother in White Harbour. The others are there in Winterfell. The small folk went away as well."  
"Fine." The Stark girl stated. "Your people are your House's strength, not your fortress. When this war is over, you'll be able to get back your land and your castle only if your people survive. For now, they're safe and that's what matters most."  
She had learned better than I expected, Jaime thought. And of course the young she-wolf didn't learn _that_ from his sister: Cersei would never have allowed hundreds and hundreds of destitutes to take shelter inside the keep, she wouldn't have shared her food with them, she wouldn't have said that people mattered more than castles. But they did. He glanced at Brienne, sitting beside him on the bench, her hand caressing Oathkeeper's hilt. He recalled the feeling of those fingers on his wrist, had to force himself to think about something else to keep at bay the heat that filled his limbs and his crotch. She mattered more than any stone and any land and any piece of gold in this goddamned world.  
Sansa dismissed the poor man and his family, climbed down from the dais and gathered around her the commanders and her counsellors. Samwell unfolded a map of the North on a table.  
"It doesn't make any fucking sense." Clegane muttered. "They're coming from the wrong way. And they're too few."  
"What if they aren't the Army of the Dead?" Lord Royce suggested.  
"Who else could they be?"  
Jaime shivered. What if. What if his sweet sister had sent some Iron Men or, even worse, those mercenaries from Essos? It was neither wise nor necessary, but being wise was something Cersei wasn't concerned about at all.  
"We should send scouts." He suggested. Some of the northern lords scowled at him. Jaime undid his sword belt and placed his sword on the table. He sensed Brienne going stiff at his side. "I'll lead them, if you permit me to, Lady Sansa. It won't take long, they'd be halfway between the river and the keep by now." "Neither the best men, nor the best weapons." The young woman whispered back at him his own words, considering them cautiously.  
Jaime turned towards Bran, who still sat in his chair over the dais. _"During the battles, I must sit by the Heart Tree, and your duty will be to ward me."_ That was the last thing the boy told him during their absurd conversation, the previous day. Jaime was not one to believe in magic, but he did believe in Brandon Stark's words - too many of them were true.  
Sansa followed his gaze. Bran nodded slightly, his sister nodded back.  
"I'll give you five men, Kingslayer. No knights. None of my commanders." She added, looking Brienne straight in the eye. "Is there any volunteer?"  
"I'll go with the pretty prick!" A hoarse voice boomed from the aisle, and Brienne's wilding suitor stepped forward with one of his fellows, winking at her so blatantly that Jaime had to stifle a laugh. He had managed to make him toe the line on the day of his arrival, sporting his worst Tywin-Lannister-like glare, but the man was stubborn, indeed.

A man from Hornwood, a young boy who served under Brienne's command and a Crannogman completed the group - the latter on Lady Meera's silent plead, just an instant before Podrick himself could offer to follow. Jaime thanked the Gods for their affair: if things went wrong, he couldn't bear to lose the boy, because Brienne wouldn't bear it too.

"You'll need an armour." She told him quietly, while the crowd slowly left the hall.  
"I don't. We just need to track them down. And there's no time to forge one."  
"Then I'll find something in the armoury that might fit you."  
"I'll have it gladly, my lady, when I'll come back. Because I will. I will come back."

They left long before sunrise.

\-----

"They are very much alive." Tormund whispered, sitting down again behind the bump where they took shelter. "Not in good shape, but alive."  
"Soldiers?" Jaime asked.  
"A few." Elmon answered. "But they don't look like an army. There's a red haired girl leading them."  
"Fuck me!" Lothar exclaimed, too loudly for Jaime's liking. "They're the Karstarks!"  
"Weren't they supposed to sail to White Harbour?"  
Roen shook his head. "There were storms on the coast in the last weeks. Maybe they couldn't get that South."  
"So what are we doing?"  
"We try not to get killed by them while we approach, and then we escort them to the keep." Jaime sighed, feeling suddenly relieved from a burden. Then he turned towards the young Winterfell sentry. "Don, that wolf on your coat, we'll use it as a banner."  
He adjusted the glove on his golden hand.  
"It won't get colder than it already is." Tormund teased him.  
"I know. But I might have killed a couple of that girl's kin, some years ago, and I promised to someone that I would come back alive from this trip."

The convoy came from Karhold, and - exactly as the Crannog guy had supposed - they had to land close to the Weeping Water's mouth because of a snowstorm.  
They had headed to Hornwood just to find the keep deserted, and then proceeded further west.  
Alys Karstark didn't seem to recognise him, and his man just called him by his name. When they were just hours from Winterfell Jaime thought that, in the end, it had gone better than he could hope. Then, suddenly, from the hills that lined the northern side of the road, it rose a thick white fog, and from the panic on Tormund's face he knew he had been wrong. "Fuck!" The wildling shouted. "They're attacking from North!"

\-----

Back in his cell, Jaime leant against a wall. The bricks were tepid, hot water running beneath them, it was almost soothing. This is how everything ends, he thought.

They managed to defeat the group of wights in the end, but before Roan's dragonglass arrow could destroy the White Walker who led them, too many had fallen. Two of his men, at least fifty from Karhold. They set the bodies on fire, before hurrying back to Winterfell as fast as they could travel.  
"Don't be too hard on yourself, pretty boy." Tormund grumbled while they dragged one of the wounded through the gates. "We saved hundreds of them."  
"They won't be safe for long."  
The dull demonstration he had attended to in King's Landing was nothing compared to what they saw on the field. And the battle they had just fought was nothing compared to what was going to come: those creatures were just a small patrol - a small patrol that would be followed by a huge army in a few hours, and still there was no sign of the Targaryen girl and her dragons.

Slowly, he stood and started to don his leathers and the armour Brienne had set for him and sent to his chamber. He hadn't prayed for years. He hadn't prayed since the day he came back in King's Landing to find the Great Sept burnt and his last son dead. Gods, let her live, he said silently to any deity who might want to listen, let her live.  
The knock on the door came unexpected as he was almost ready to go. Her sight came even more unexpected. She entered, lowered her eyes, then watched him again and shoved him his sword (the other sword, the one with a bloodthirsty, ridiculous name). He remembered the tent in Riverrun and smiled. She saw his smile and returned it.  
"They gave me permission to bring this back to you."  
"They were forged by Ned Stark's sword, it seems right to me that they defend his home together, my lady." He smiled. Then his grin faded, his eyes pinned to hers - her amazing eyes were glistening, her lower lips trembling. "This is the end, Brienne." There was no pain anymore while he spoke: at least they were together.  
"Valar morghulis... that's what they say in Essos, isn't it, Jaime?"  
"Every man must die, yes they do." He took the sword, secured the sword-belt to his hips clumsily. She moved towards him, he gestured that he was going to make it on his own - he craved for her touch, but didn't know what he might have done if she touched him again, he had already been too close to kissing her just hours before.  
"D'you know what they say here in the North? I heard it from that wildling fellow that keeps on mooning over you..." Brienne blushed furiously but refused to avert her gaze. "They say that before we die, we live."  
They stood still, inches apart, for an endless moment. Then she spoke. He didn't understand at first, but when she finished he knew exactly what it was. "My father." she said "Ser Goodwin. Podrick. The Stark siblings. And you."  
Gods, how much time did they waste - "and for you", she had said a lifetime ago in the Kingsguard tower, she had said it in the same way and she had meant the same thing, and he didn't understand - blind, denying idiot.  
"My brother." He answered finally. "My child, if he ever is going to born." He paused. He didn't know if it was the right thing to say, but he knew he couldn't lie (not to her, not now). "My sister, maybe, even if she doesn't deserve it at all." Brienne blinked and nodded slightly. "And you."  
He knew their lists were incomplete, because right now they both would have thrown themselves between a White Walker and _anyone_ who was in the castle or outside its walls, they would have died even for people they hated.  
She shut her eyes with a grimace, held her breath and gritted her teeth trying not to cry. He realized that he was doing the same, and was relieved when her beautiful sapphire irises came back to sight.  
"Is this a goodbye?"  
He could just nod back in answer.  
"Goodbye, Jaime."  
"Goodbye, Brienne."  
They spoke but they didn't move. When she moved, it wasn't towards the door: she closed the distance between them, threw her arms around him and hugged him, and he held her as tight as their armour allowed, metal clanking against metal. She was - she had always been - taller, stronger, braver, better than him. Her breath was warm on his neck. He turned his head, found her mouth with his own. Her lips were chapped and soft, softer than he had imagined, she kissed him back so awkwardly at first that he wondered if she ever had been kissed before and felt his chest tightening: he hoped to kiss her well enough for being her first, and prayed again that she lived enough not to be her last, and then he gave up any sensible thought, and kissed her again, and again, and again.  
At the first sound of the horn they slowly parted their lips. Jaime realized that he was breathless, his cheek resting on hers, their mouths still so close, he cursed the damn war, he cursed kings, queens, wights and gods, because if they hadn't been in the midst of all of this he would have torn off both her clothes and armour, and taken her on the floor of the room in that very moment. Instead, she was going to die a maiden, and he a hopeless fool. The horn blew again.  
"Brienne" he spoke on her skin, loving the taste of her name on his own tongue "Brienne this is not a goodbye."  
Three blows, he kissed her again fiercely, cupping her face with his hand and almost clashing their teeth.  
As a fourth blow blasted in the air, they looked at each other puzzled, then grabbed their twin swords and ran to the courtyard.


	6. Jaime 3 -  dragons and wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 8 was a low blow. I caught up with the show after 8x04 and then suffered through 8x05 and 8x06. Then I simply stopped trying to make it make sense somehow: it didn't.  
> So I am forever grateful to all the amazing writers that have posted fix-it fics in the last month, you healed my broken heart, otherwise I wouldn't have found the strength to go on with this one. Here, I'll keep on pretending that what aired after season 7 never happened - because it didn't happen, did it? especially after the 2nd half of 8x04... ;-)

"Dragons! Dragons!" A woman yelled from the furthest end of the corridor.  
A boy bumped into them from behind a corner, his eyes wide in excitement, almost jumping from joy. "Lady Brienne! They came at last!!! King Jon is back with the dragons!"  
She smiled motherly at the lad. "Yes, Steffon, we heard it."  
She couldn't add anything else, because the boy ran away again, calling one of his friends' name.  
They slowed down while they neared the door to the yard.  
They hadn't spoken to each other since they left the room. He could still feel her on his lips. She leaned forward to grab the doorknob, and suddenly Jaime panicked: no matter that she had kissed him back, kissing her had been selfish and unwise - there was a war to fight, a Targaryen and her dragons to dodge. And then, his sister in the South. Brienne deserved better than being tied to an old cripple with a tainted reputation, a wretched man whose past would always come back to haunt him, someone who could just hurt her in the end.  
She stopped on the threshold, put a hand on his own. "Jaime." Her voice was firm but gentle, it held him like her arms had held him in the tub in Harrenhal. "Jaime." She repeated, more sweetly. No one had ever said his name with such fondness. _"I'd rather have someone I want than someone I deserve"_ , she had shouted. He had always had someone he wanted, and what good had come of it? What good would come to Brienne? But now it was too late to tell he didn't deserve her, even if it was the truth. He put his golden hand on her arm. "Let's go, my lady." He said, instead.

The courtyard was already overfull: lords, soldiers and small folk gathered around the Stark girls to welcome their king and watch closely the famous Dragon Queen.  
Her _children_ circled above the castle, and all the people raised their heads every time they hovered over the yard.  
All the people but Sansa Stark, whose flaming mane emerged close to the silvery one of Daenerys Targaryen. From where he stood, Jaime could spot their faces in the middle of the crowd, and the reverent silence of the bystanders allowed him to hear the conversation clearly.

There was no sympathy between him and the elder Stark sister, but he admired her spine, and the way the shy child he had seen grieving in King's Landing had grown into a cunning leader who held her own against a bunch of callous lords thrice her age. The sarcastic look she threw to Daenerys Targaryen while she curtsied, and greeted her pouting "Your Grace" amused him endlessly. Then he realised that he had already seen that same smirk on his own sister's face, and his fun faded immediately. But when she turned to her half-brother, her eyes were again Ned Stark's ones, austere and sullen.  
Then, the girl lowered her gaze and hunched slightly. "It's been a long time, Lord Tyrion." She said.

Jaime gasped in shock. He had expected his brother to follow with the rest of the army - he actually had hoped he would remain safely in White Harbour as other counsellors of the queen surely did. But no, he was right there, and that meant that _he did fly to Winterfell on a fucking dragon,_ and Jaime suddenly wished he could travel back in time, talk to the little child Tyrion once had been, tell him that one day he would have not only seen a true dragon but also ridden one, and become the Hand of the Dragon Queen. He wondered about the entranced face his baby brother would have made back then, when everything was still innocent and harmless as a fairytale, and his lips turned up in a desperate smile.  
"What is _he_ doing here?" The girl's voice froze him and her purple-blue eyes sized him up with a contempt he wasn't used to anymore. Jaime realised that he had moved forward, and forward, the urge too see Tyrion pushing his feet to the front row. This close, he noticed Daenerys' resemblance to Rhaegar - when he charged her on the battlefield, there was only Aerys, his paranoid gaze, the fire, the three words that had branded Jaime's fate.  
His brother looked up at him, worried, frowning, and the next thing he could see was a large shoulder, clad in dark blue metal and heavy furs, coming between him and the Targaryen queen. Brienne opened her mouth but Sansa spoke out before she could utter a word.  
"Ser Jaime is here as our guest, and he is going to fight alongside us, Your Grace, exactly as you are." This was Catelyn Tully's blood in her daughter's veins: stubborn, protective of the ones she cared for. Jaime knew for sure that the lady cared for Brienne and wouldn't want her to get in the way of an angry dragon, least of all for a Lannister, if she could prevent it. A murmur flowed across the crowd, and he was stunned, as he realised that the remarks weren't against him, but in his favour.  
The Dragon Queen sensed it as well, and glared at Jon Snow, annoyed, but the young man just shrugged faintly: he had bent the knee on these people's behalf, but their hearts and their respect was something she should earn on her own. By the glances they exchanged, if the two of them were lovers as he had been told, well, maybe either of them wasn't very skilled in the bedchamber, he joked silently in his mind - but, again, he recalled Cersei's eyes, the way she used to look daggers at him whenever he displeased her, one way or another.  
"We heard about an army, yet I don't see any Lannister banner..." Daenerys sneered.  
"They're on their way from the Twins, we're expecting them in a day at most." Arya commented plainly.  
"One day too late, then." The Targaryen girl retorted.  
"What about the Dothraki?" Sansa asked, feigning a casual tone.  
"Some of them are with us. The bigger contingent had to remain in the Riverlands, to stop any threat coming from South." She spat, glowering at Jaime again.  
"My queen, my lady." Tyrion stepped in, using his most charming tone. "We can argue about those who aren't here later, but since time is definitely not on our side, now probably we'd better figure out what to do with those who _are_ here."  
"Lord Tyrion is right." Snow cut short. He looked at Daenerys for confirmation, and when she nodded he spoke to his sister. "Sansa, prepare the solar, we'll have a council in one hour, as soon as the Unsullied reach the castle."  
"As Your Grace commands." Sansa motioned Brienne to follow her, and she turned one last time to Jaime, while Snow offered his arm to Daenerys and headed to the main hall.  
Tyrion cleared his throat, and Jaime finally looked down at him.  
"Welcome in the wolf's den, brother."  
"They haven't torn you to pieces yet. I wouldn't have bet on it."  
Jaime shrugged. They hadn't because of Brienne, but it wasn't something he could easily tell to Tyrion. "You know how it goes... they surround you, they sniff you and they bare their teeth, and you try to stand still and not to rile them too much, until they decide that for now they're not hungry."  
"Low profile?"  
"Sort of."  
His brother laughed and shook his head. "You don't look like the type, Jaime."  
"Neither does your queen. Yet, here we are."  
Tyrion's silence lasted a bit too long.  
"Do you think we can talk about it with some wine in our belly?"  
"They do have wine, but I wouldn't recommend it. Maybe Fanny can find us some decent ale." He answered, moving to the kitchens.

\-----

In the end, they did get wine. In the kitchens everybody was working feverishly, packing and storing supplies, providing soldiers with flasks and small rations of salted meat to carry in view of a possible siege, and one of the maids sheepishly told them that they couldn't give them anything but what they were ordered to. They both smiled and thanked her anyway, and Jaime pleaded her to take care, to follow her liege lady's directions and to find shelter with her little son as soon as the battle started.

They sat on the lower steps of a staircase close to Sansa's solar, waiting for the council to begin, both their armours clanking and scraping against the stone.  
From a small window on the opposite wall, they could see the last light fading on the frozen planes outside the castle. This was very likely their last sunset, and it was grey and grim. In King's Landing, the sun went down under the hills of the Golden Road, coated with low clouds and dust, but what he missed now were the colourful sunsets of his youth, the ones he watched from the terraces of Casterly Rock, when the huge red disc would sink in the ocean painting both sky and water in countless shades of yellow, purple, pink and blue.  
Tyrion opened his flask, took a sip, and almost sputtered it. Jaime chortled. "Don't say I didn't warn you."  
"Gods, it's disgusting." His brother commented, gulping and then drinking some more. "What happened to your eye?" He asked, then. "Some of these northerners tried to kiss you, but didn't have a good aim?"  
Jaime raised his golden hand to his bruised eyebrow - the punch, he almost had forgotten it, not only because it didn't hurt anymore. It was the day before yesterday and it felt as a lifetime had passed. And then he lowered it unconsciously on his lips, where Brienne actually had kissed him, and he knew he was blushing, and he knew that in no way his brother wouldn't notice it.  
"I just tried to break up a brawl between two hotheads." He muttered.  
Tyrion chuckled. "Jaime Lannister, the peacemaker..."  
"Oh, stop it."  
"Believe me, big brother: you've always thought you're worse than you really are." Jaime swallowed.  
"And I've always thought I'm better than I really am." Tyrion added, lowering his eyes.  
Jaime spoke before he could think twice. "Olenna Tyrell. She was the one who poisoned Joffrey. She told it to me herself, when we took Highgarden."  
Tyrion turned suddenly, and glowered at him. "I don't need your absolution." He said in a low, brooding voice.  
"I don't need yours either. But you deserved to know."  
Tyrion averted his eyes again, shook his head, drank some more wine, let Jaime's words sink slowly. "You're the only one who never needed my forgiveness, Jaime. You're the only one." Another sip, longer. Their father's and their sister's names remained unspoken, but hovered in the cold winter air of the corridor, just like their faces kept on appearing in his dreams. "Sometimes I still wonder how you managed to love all of us..."  
"You are my family. I don't think I ever had a choice."  
"You had it: you're here." He retorted.  
Jaime felt his heart sinking.  
"I don't blame you. I couldn't blame you even when you decided to remain by her side. But I'm glad you didn't, this time."  
"I don't know. I don't know if I'll be able to..." Jaime trailed off. Thinking about Cersei almost made him sick. He simply tried to avoid it, most of the time. "Well, I guess it doesn't matter anymore. I probably won't be here to find out what I'll be able to do, tomorrow."  
Tyrion raised the flask in a toast. "A dwarf and a cripple. Cheers to the mighty House of Lannister."  
They remained silent while his brother guzzled down the remaining wine.  
"Did you fuck her?"  
He knew instantly that it wasn't their sister Tyrion was talking about. "No. I... I just ki... I... Did you fuck _her_?"  
Tyrion laughed loudly. "Gods, no. Maybe it is something that runs in the family - being fascinated by strong women, I mean. But she'll better go on fucking Jon Snow. He's icy enough to keep at bay her lust for fire, and naïve enough to take no interest in power. Honestly, I thought that she'd have married him when we arrived in the North, but... Something happened, when they came here in Winterfell some weeks ago to meet Jon's brothers. And I don't know what it was." Tyrion lowered his voice, clearly bothered by the thought. He watched the empty flask. "Perhaps I should drink some more to find it out..."  
Footsteps approached the hallway, and Tyrion stopped abruptly.  
Two soldiers opened the doors of the solar, and placed themselves outside. The younger turned and saw them, still sitting on the staircase, then nodded a greeting to Jaime, that bowed his head back to the lad. He was moving to stand up, when Tyrion grabbed his arm. "I wish we had had more time." He said, and Jaime had to fight the tears that suddenly came to his eyes. So he turned and hugged his little brother. "Try not to die." He whispered in his ear. Tyrion hugged him back, and when Sansa's skirts swished in the corridor and they stood, his eyes too were slightly wet and shining - but he at least could pretend to be a bit drunk.

\-----

Lords, ladies, commanders and leaders entered the room in a scattered procession. Brienne didn't see him, when she arrived: she was talking quietly with Lord Hornwood about the troops, and Jaime didn't call her, yet caressed her shoulders and her nape with his gaze until she disappeared behind the door, a warrior among warriors.  
Last came Daenerys Targaryen, two Dothraki at her side, the leader of the Unsullied walking ahead of them and Jorah Mormont trailing behind. Jaime remembered him from the Siege of Pyke - were the two of them and that Greyjoy cunt the only ones that still lived, among those who fought on the Iron Islands back then? Jaime remembered Ned Stark's Captain of the Guards, falling under his blade in the dust of King's Landing streets. The man would probably be inside the solar, ready to face the Night King at his side, if he hadn't killed him years ago.  
Tyrion patted his arm one last time, then joined his queen, while Jaime remained still at the foot of the staircase. It was the same old story, over and over, it never seemed to change: people banded together to defeat a common enemy, and then they were ready again to turn against each other as soon as the bigger threat was gone, loyalties shifting and floating like snowflakes in the storm - either for power, gold, fear, vengeance, hatred. Jaime hated it. He had been a part of it for so long, even when he thought he was fighting for honor or for love, so long that he hated himself as well. And now he couldn't do anything else but keep on fighting.

"Do you think you'll stay outside, Kingslayer?" Arya Stark's voice whispered close to his hear, her lean figure appearing out of nowhere at his side.  
"I don't think I am welcome."  
"No one says you're welcome. You're needed." She replied, with a grimace that could almost resemble a smirk, then strode towards the door. This time her footsteps were clearly audible on the worn out stone floor. He followed her in the solar and found a place between the lesser houses lords and the wildling clan leaders.

Jaime knew the battle plan by heart, everyone in Winterfell did. Lady Sansa was convinced that they shouldn't rely on the Dragon Queen forces (nor on the Lannister ones), until they actually arrived. So they had dug trenches on the northern and eastern side of the castle, and filled them with dragonglass spikes. The cavalry was supposed to attack from the sides while the wildling and northern infantry and the fire-loaded trebuchets were going to be placed in the middle. Archers on the top of every battlement, and more foot soldiers guarding every gate, the less trained ones inside the walls. The Crannogmen hunters were in charge of the Godswood, and Jaime was supposed to follow them - because of Bran, even if nobody had understood exactly what the boy planned to do beneath the Weirwood tree.  
The other ones that carried Vayrian steel swords would stay at each gate: Brienne at the northern one, a man of the Night's Watch at the southern one, with Samwell's family blade. Everyone who wasn't fit to fight would take shelter in the basement of the keep.

He knew the plan by heart, yet his heart couldn't do anything else but beat feverishly with pride and awe, when Brienne was entrusted by Sansa with the explanation to the newcomers. She asked if everyone understood the common tongue, and when the Dothraki, the Unsullied agreed, she went on, confident and competent like a seasoned commander. They had to adjust everything, since the horde wasn't coming from East, and they didn't know exactly how to use in the best way the Essosi troops, but it didn't take too much time: here, among his bannermen and his wildling allies, Snow was not the lovestruck fool that almost fouled up the meeting at the Dragon Pit. His tone was authoritative and as firm as Lady Sansa's - yet less sharp than hers - and Jaime suddenly recalled the Young Wolf that defeated his army and took him captive, a lifetime ago, but Snow lacked the pride that ultimately led Robb Stark to his demise. Jaime's stomach clenched. There was no use, now, in feeling guilty of all the atrocities his family and he himself had inflicted to the Starks, but he couldn't help wondering if things would have been different, better, if Catelyn's son had simply cut off his head as soon as he captured him, back then.  
Brienne, I would never have met her, he thought.  
"It's not about pride, Lord Glover!" Snow rebutted harshly when a northern lord complained about the rearrangement of the troops - the Dothraki riders would hold the western side of the keep, while the northern cavalry was supposed to remain on the eastern and southern sides of the Godswood, and some lords felt passed over. "It's about survival. This enemy won't care about your name or your house, it will tear you to pieces, that's all. And you'll be grateful for every man fighting at your side and saving your back, wherever he comes from. If we don't stand together, we die." Snow's voice started loud, rebuking, and ended in a steady, ominous threat. He looked around, to find the committed nods of all the wildlings in the room. Nobody dared to breathe a single word, while he spoke, and Jaime realised that he might like the young man. He liked him because he sounded so much like Brienne, and when he turned slightly his gaze to look at her, he found her eyes already on him, piercing his soul with an unspoken question. Yes, Jaime answered silently to whatever she was asking.

"Your Grace." Sansa spoke to Daenerys, this time with no mockery at all. "What about the dragons?"  
The queen turned to Jon Snow, giving him a knowing look, folded her hands and rested them on her stomach in an unconscious gesture, then exhaled and answered quietly.  
"I'll stay close to the keep. I'll ride Drogon and I'll try to burn down as many wights as possible. Rhaegal will chase the Night King. With Jon."  
Sansa seemed unimpressed. Jaime searched Tyrion's eyes, and found there his own astonished confusion. So, there it was their secret: the mother of dragons had a human child in her womb. It still didn't make sense that she hadn't already married Jon Snow, but Jaime didn't know the girl enough to judge her choices. Cersei didn't marry him either, even if she told him they would and could have done it more than once - oh, his sweet sister, always speaking soft words and hiding her worst deeds behind a smile (and you remained at her side, regardless, a voice inside his head reminded him resentfully).

Someone - Clegane - hit his shoulder, moving past him, and Jaime realised that he had been so lost in his thoughts he had missed Snow's words of dismissal. The meeting was over, everyone hurried out from the solar to get ready for the battle.  
The Hound had walked towards Tyrion and Sansa. Brienne was still at her lady's side, so Jaime approached them. They were talking about some secret passage to flee from the castle with women and children, if the dead should take the keep.  
"Remember the Blackwater, Lady Stark." Clegane said sombrely, as the young woman stubbornly refused to leave Winterfell, no matter what. Something shifted on her face, then. "I know for sure there's one of these tunnels in the crypts, maybe..." A loud scream outside the room interrupted her.

In the blink of an eye, they hurried in the corridor, swords unsheathed and wide eyes. Arya was there, grabbing an old woman by the hair, her dagger at the crone's throat. Snow, his smuggler counsellor and some other soldiers were already surrounding them. "Say it again." The girl threatened. "May your blades be blessed by the Lord of Light. May your steel bring out the blood and the fire it has on the inside." The woman whispered with a devilish grin of her toothless mouth, caressing the knife at her neck with a wrinkled finger. "She's one of yours." Clegane muttered to Beric Dondarrion, that stood beside him. "Show yourself, witch. So they all can see you when I kill you." Arya ordered. "Don't rush, young lady. You'd better keep your Valyrian weapons for the battle. I'm just here to help, I'm not yours to kill." Snow pointed his own sword to the woman's chest when she slipped her hand in the folds of her dress, but pulled it away when she whipped out a golden jewel with a big ruby in the middle. Jaime heard Brienne and Dondarrion gasping, while Ser Seaworth cursed under his breath and Snow aimed at the hag again. She put her necklace on, sliding it beneath Arya's dagger, and then almost everybody shouted in shock, when the woman grew taller and younger right before their eyes, turning in a beautiful red haired woman. The Stark girl kept her knifepoint steadily at her jugular, a drop of blood rolled down, pooled on the golden wire of the choker and _disappeared_.  
"Arya, don't." The Hound said slowly, as if he spoke to a skittish horse, and the crazed look in the young girl's eyes suddenly became less manic. Yet, she didn't release the sorceress. "She's on my..."  
"Fuck your list, girl!" Clegane shouted. "I was on it as well. Please, don't."  
Everyone was still and silent, Jaime felt Brienne's shoulder brushing his own, but didn't avert his eyes from the two women grasping each other, and wondered which magic could be the most dangerous - the one of the R'Hllor priestess or the sorcery that allowed Arya to recognise her.  
"Why the hell shouldn't I do it?" The girl asked to the Hound.  
"Because you're not meant to." The man's words were quite plain, but his voice made Jaime's skin crawl, almost as it did back at the inn, some weeks before. "She's not the only one who sees things in the fire." He added, his burned face turning even creepier in the dim light of the hallway.  
Arya couldn't retort, because the horn blew - once, twice, thrice.  
"Ser Davos, Dondarrion." Snow commanded. "Take two men and escort Lady Melisandre to the nearest cell. Lock her in, then join the rest of us. Everyone else, get ready to fight, now!"  
Only then Arya let go of the witch.

\-----

The next minutes passed frantically, the whole castle buzzed like a hive when a bear knocked it down from its branch.

Jaime said goodbye to his brother and bowed to Lady Sansa when they descended into the crypts, and then found himself in the courtyard, side by side with Brienne, as it always had been in the last weeks, as he wished it would have been during this battle. And it felt _right_ , in a way Jaime couldn't even describe, in a way he had rarely experienced in his lifetime. For the briefest moment he thought about disregarding his orders and remaining with her at the northern gate. He would have done it for Cersei, it was exactly the kind of thing his twin would have asked him to do. But Brienne - Brienne the soldier, Brienne the righteous soul, Brienne the honourable knight, Brienne who really believed _he_ could be honourable - she would have hated it, she would have despised him for it, or maybe just kicked his ass and sent him back to the Goodswood without any fuss. He wanted so badly to kiss her again, in the middle of the crowd, for everyone to see. Instead, he kept on watching her while she collected the last men that were supposed to follow her, and he tried to fix her figure, her face, her voice deeply in his mind.  
Meera Reed and Pod approached a moment later, kiss-swollen lips and tear-stained cheeks. They are both so young, Jaime thought with a pang in his heart. But then Brienne turned to him, and her eyes were holding back tears, too. She just nodded and tried to smile, a small lock of hair fell on her face. He raised his hand and tucked it behind her ear, gently.  
"When this battle is over..."  
"Lady Brienne! We're ready!" One of her men shouted, and Jaime didn't finish his sentence. What was he going to say, anyway?  
She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Then gestured to Podrick, and reached the group of soldiers to head to northern walls. Pod remained beside him and Lady Reed. "Please, take care of her, Ser Jaime." The lad asked, sheepishly, pointing at his lover.  
"I will, Pod." He promised. He knew that the young woman didn't need his protection at all, but Podrick would feel comforted by his assurance.  
They shook hands and hugged each other. Jaime glanced at Brienne one last time, her hair glowing like pale gold in the torchlight, her eyes taking him in, in the same way he did with her before.  
And then, too soon, they were gone.

"Where is Lord Bran? Didn't see him at the council..." He asked Lady Reed, while they strode to the eastern passage that led to the Godswood.  
"He went to the Heart Tree before the meeting, Tarly brought him."  
"I'll come with you to check the ramparts, before I join them."  
The girl just shrugged. She was going to man the walls with the archers, while the soldiers that remained in the wood were under Jaime's command.  
When this war was over, if there ever was an afterwards, they should really start knighting women. Jaime had seen them working and training and fighting just like men, or possibly better, harder: Lady Meera, Arya Stark, all the wildling women and some of the northerner ones he had met in Winterfell, even the little Mormont girl from Bear Island, who had to be literally forced to hide in the crypts by her liege lady, and refused to go down there without a sword in her hand, anyway. Daenerys Targaryen herself was a fighter.  
And Brienne. She would have been praised by all the best knights he knew. Ser Arthur would have loved her. Her name was to be remembered in songs and legends with the likes of Duncan the Tall, of Galladon of Morne.  
(Her only flaw was that she loved him, he knew it and yet didn't dare to voice that thought.)  
When this battle is over, he thought instead, when this battle is over I'll find you, and I'll never agree to leave your side during a battle again - I'll never agree to leave your side again as long as I have breath.

\-----

From the top of the wall that surrounded the Godswood, the snow-covered field that stretched North of Winterfell almost shone in the dim light of the moon, filtering through heavy clouds.

The wights' eyes were blue fireflies in the distance. Jaime shivered. Bran hadn't counted them right: they did not outnumber the living ten to one, but thirty, maybe fifty, to one.  
"We should trade places, Lady Reed." Jaime whispered.  
"What?"  
"If those..." He was immediately aware that it was _"when"_ , not _"if"_. "If those... things manage to climb the ramparts, a Valyrian steel sword might be more helpful than a bow. Besides, you spent a lot of time with Lord Bran. You know what to do with him while... Well, while he does whatever he does under that tree."  
Meera looked perplexed, but in the end she nodded, informed the soldiers, and climbed down the stairs. She didn't need his protection, but the girl deserved to live more than he did, and this might save her life - or at least keep her alive some more than if she stayed up there.

Speaking of death, Jaime now saw his own coming closer through the field, silent and icy and frightening.  
He wasn't going to die in the arms of any of the women he loved. But they were going to be his last thought. He counted them: his mother, his daughter, his sister, those who had preceded him and headed to some heaven, and the one who made sure that he would follow her down to the Seven Hells. And Brienne, the one who made him absurdly happy to be there, still alive for a while, freezing in the winter night and standing up against the darkest magic he had ever witnessed. Happy because that was the right place to be, and for once in his damn life loving - loving her - was the right thing to do.  
"Ready your bows and wait my signal to set the arrowheads on fire, and then to loose! Let's hold our position!" he yelled to his men when the Army of the Dead suddenly moved faster - let the Stranger come and take me, I'll see her eyes when I'll close mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was quite hard for me to write, I hope the result isn't too bad and you enjoy reading it anyway.  
> The last line is a little homage to a beautiful poem by the Italian writer Cesare Pavese, "Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi", at this link you can find it, with a good English translation: http://danteact.org.au/langolo-della-poesia-9/


	7. Jaime 4 - to fight for the living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter took me a huge amount of time, I hope it was worth the wait.  
> Thanks to escobarhippo who helped me as a beta on the first part - the mistakes are all mine.

And they came.

They came massively and relentlessly, the first lines mostly fell in the trap of the trenches, filling them with rotten flesh and crushed bones, but the next ones simply walked over the twice-dead bodies of their fellows without wincing.  
They were not human, not anymore. It was their strength: no one of them would mind if the others fell, they wouldn't try to save each other, they wouldn't have any hesitation, any kind of mercy.

They came and they were too many, and they headed straight to the northern walls, to the gate that Brienne was supposed to defend. Jaime gripped the hilt of the sword, to prevent his hand from shaking. The horde attacked like a tidal wave, and it was halfway through the field when two darker shadows crossed the dark sky, then a red light split both the night and the ocean of wights. _There is a first time for everything_ , he thought, while the men around him burst into cheers, _even for thanking the old gods and the new for a Targaryen dragon_.  
The undead one Brandon had spotted in his visions was nowhere to be seen, and he was thankful for that, too.

The dragons attacked again, but then as they prepared to breathe a third blast of fire against their enemies, the bigger one did a sudden movement, started circling uncoordinatedly, and then landed, close to the Army of the Dead - too close.   
Snow, who was riding the other dragon, positioned it just above the wounded one, and aimed to burn all the wights that tried to move close. The main part of the horde, however, marched to the castle.

"Damn!" A man shouted to his left. Jaime turned to the muffled noise of hooves on snow, and the loud screaming of the Dothraki, who stormed towards the wights, trying to reach the spot where Daenerys' dragon still struggled on the ground.  
"Damn indeed!!! Weren't they supposed to wait on the side, and attack after the wights reached the infantry???" Pavil, one of the Crannog commanders, piled on.   
Jaime cursed silently. The Essosi savages took their orders from their _Khaleesi_ , but he didn't expect they would try to help her screwing up every strategy they had agreed upon, and leaving the northwestern side exposed - and the northern gate. So, when the wights shifted east he released a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Seven Hells!" Another soldier yelled. "They're going for _us_!"  
Not for us, Jaime realised, for Brandon Stark, for the Three-Eyed Raven. _And I made him a promise_.  
Prepare the fire arrows and the dragonglass weapons!" He ordered, roaring unwaveringly.

\-----

Did it last hours, or days? Jaime couldn't tell, there had been no time to think, nor to check if the dragons survived. The thick smoke filled the sky, nobody could guess if the sun had risen behind the curtain of clouds and ashes that smelled like rot, mud and roasted flesh. Nobody would ever eat meat without thinking of this night anymore, if they survived, and maybe someone wouldn't even stomach it, anyway.

The dead fought their way to the ramparts, and then climbed - not in the same way a living army would have climbed, they didn't have ladders and harpoons, they simply started piling themselves beneath the walls, and the following ones quickly scrambled across, and up, and up.

The outwork around the Godswood was shorter than the one around the main keep, so the wights could climb more easily, while elsewhere they tried to force the gates. From above, the living troops kept on fending them off - first with bows, then throwing pitch and hot oil and trying to set them on fire, and in the end with steel and dragon glass.

Hours, days, it was a matter of stamina, not of skill. Jaime felt his whole body as if it wasn't his own anymore: aching, numb, exhausted, as if it was made of the same stuff of his ghost hand. _As if I'm a ghost already, we all are, we soon will be_. But they weren't, not yet. The golden hand hung heavy on his wrist, it anchored him to life, somehow. His sword cut through a wight that managed to reach the walkway, too late to save the man that the creature had assaulted.  
He had shared his meals with that man, knew his name, remembered the times he spoke about the children and the wife he left in Greywater Watch. Jaime was about to pray silently to the Seven for the soldier's soul, when suddenly the fallen body surged again. It took all his lucidity, all his courage, to wield Widow's Wail and sever the corpse's blue-eyed head with a single stroke.

Then, he saw _it_ : the White Walker that had reached the ramparts and resurrected all the dead nearby. It was no more than ten feet from him, tall, silvery, and colder than winter. It looked at Jaime with a sinister sneer. It looked at him as if it could read all his fears, all his weaknesses, as if it knew exactly where to hit to hurt him most.

_Kingslayer._ The White Walker grabbed his ice sword with both hands and charged. _Oathbreaker_. Jaime raised his own sword, and reeled backwards under the stroke. _Weak, cripple_. The creature had a superhuman force, and he was just a man.  _A man without honor_. He parried some blows, barely, he felt death crawling upon him every time the thing swung its weapon, he felt helpless - almost as he did when he had been held captive by the Bloody Mummers, after they took his hand, almost as he did before she spoke through the light of a campfire.  
 _Live._ Jaime parried again, this time more confident, the smoke that filled his lungs reminded him he was still breathing, instinct guided his body and his sword. _I know there is honor in you._

And then it was his turn to attack, not as hard as he would have been with his right hand, but he had learned to make up with skill for what he still lacked in power.  
_Ser Jaime_. She would have done the same, she was doing the same on the other side of the castle, she would not give up easily, she never gave up easily to anything - to anyone. _Jaime_. Hit, parry, get close enough, until steel and ice grated against each other in front of their faces, his laboured breathing mingled with the frost that emanated from the creature. The White Walker grabbed Jaime's right hand and pulled, trying to unbalance him.  
Jaime felt the cold spreading through the gold at the contact, felt his skin burning from the chill, but the straps went icy and froze and suddenly broke with a dull crack. His assailant toppled backwards, and Widow's Wail's blade found the way to its target. The golden hand hit the floor amid a cloud of shattered ice and snowflakes, and all around dozens of wights fell.

"They're retreating!" Someone shouted, while Jaime retrieved his prosthesis from the ground, and looked for something to secure it again on his wrist. The wights had stopped climbing, indeed.

"Wolves." One of the younger soldiers stated.  
"Direwolves." Jaime corrected him. A huge pack had reached the field, and there was little doubt on which side the beasts fought for: even in the darkness, they clearly saw them ripping apart the undead soldiers and protecting the living ones.

\-----

"Lord Lannister..." The boy's voice was so small and bashful that he didn't hear it at first. The lad had clearly climbed the southern stairs of the wall in a rush, and his words were almost inaudible among the screams, the clanking of weapons and the howling that came from the battlefield below.   
But Jaime knew that nobody in Winterfell would ever call him like that, and the uniform he wore was dark red. "Gods be good, Lannister, your bloody army arrived at least!" Pavil's words were harsh, but his wide grin wasn't. He shoved the boy towards Jaime, the blood on his hands left a darker stain on the young man's coat and the push misplaced the bow he carried on his shoulder.  
"When did you arrive, lad?"  
"A-a-about two hours ago, I think..."  
"Ser Addam?"  
"He remained at the southern gate with most of the men, m'lord."  
"Bronn?"  
"I was with him at the Godswood... Er... Hmm... He's arguing with the young lady, that's why they sent me here..."  
"What's the matter?"  
"She said that we have to retreat inside the main keep."  
"Madness, we're almost winning!" One of the soldiers chimed in.  
"That's exactly what Ser Bronn said. But... The lady said that the boy in the wheelchair ordered it."  
Jaime held his breath. "Do you know what Br... the boy in the wheelchair said exactly?" He asked.  
The young messenger stammered again. "So-something about wa-war-wagging in two different kinds of beasts at the same time, he said he couldn't do it, and that the king is coming... I'm sorry, m'lord, I didn't understand it very well..."  
"It's fine, lad, it's enough." Jaime looked again at the smoke-covered field, then at the men around him. "Fabben, Pavil, lead everyone back to the keep. I'll fetch Lady Meera and the other men, and we'll catch up with you inside the main walls. You, with me." He added, speaking to the Lannister soldier.

\------

After the turmoil of the ramparts, the Godswood seemed oddly calm. The sentries welcomed him silently. 

Few armed men gathered around the Weirwood Tree, most of them Crannogmen, while the others wore Lannister colours. Samwell Tarly and a weird woman, barely taller than Tyrion, stood on the two sides of Bran's wheelchair. The woman's skin was dark, and in the dim light of the night it looked almost green, like the needles of the tree. Jaime had already seen her in the Crannogmen camp, they called her Terris Oldwater and she was some sort of healer, but he had no idea why this frog-witch was with the army on the battlefield.  
Near them, Bronn and Lady Meera were glowering at each other. The sellsword tapped his foot nervously on the ground.

As soon as he spotted Jaime, he strode towards him. "Talk some sense in that thick skull of hers, she keeps on saying we should go back to the keep."  
"Nice to meet you again, too, Bronn."  
"Fuck off."  
"We should go back to the keep, indeed." He answered, walking past Bronn and reaching the red and white tree. Meera and Sam had started moving carefully Bran's wheelchair from the trunk.  
"Fuck off, indeed, Jaime fuckin' Lannister!" Bronn shouted behind him. Jaime wasn't surprised by Bronn's outburst, but by the voice that followed from another corner of the small clearing.  
He turned slowly. What did Brienne say, that night near the Green Fork? _"You can't erase what you did, and you can't hide from it forever, either."_ He might as well face his past, now.

Alys Karstark stood beneath a spruce, holding hands with one of the young wildlings that came from Karhold with her.  
"You killed my uncle." The girl stated. Her face was quite stunned, but her voice didn't crack.   
"It was long ago, but yes, I did. And you should have remained in the crypts with Lady Stark." Jaime replied, calmly.  
"They sneaked out before the battle, and came here to get married before the Old Gods..." Meera explained. "Then it was too late to send them back to the keep safely."  
He looked again at the couple. The Karstark girl probably hadn't even flowered yet, her lover seemed younger than her, and they had fled from the castle just to make sure to die as man and wife. It was so crazy that it almost made him smile openly - it was so crazy that maybe he should have done it as well.  
"Well, now we all must return there, so maybe you can join the others in the basement. Not quite the wedding night you dreamed about, I guess."  
Lady Reed scowled at him. "We'd better leave soon. It's been almost an hour since Bran started warging in the wolves, and the dragon..."  
"The dragon is already here!" Sam pointed at the sky with a shriek.

The small garrison moved quickly, put out the torches and gathered around the Weirwood Tree, while the huge beast landed on the clearing, tearing down some trees with a whip of its tail.  
"You should have built some Scorpions, man." Bronn whispered angrily.  
Jaime held his sword tighter. He thought briefly of the White Book, wondered if someone would ever write on it _"died in the Godswood of Winterfell, fighting against the Night King to save the boy he had crippled a long time ago"_.

But the dragon didn't open its mouth to breath fire on them, an the small figure that climbed down from its wing had long, pale hair, and was definitely alive.  
"Lord Brandon!" Daenerys Targaryen shouted in the darkness.  
"He can't hear you, Your Grace." Meera responded, and made sign to the men to light again the torches. When the first one was set on fire, Bran's eyes were still as white as the Dragon Queen's mane.   
Daenerys approached cautiously.  
"I'm here to lead him away. We're being outnumbered on the Northern front, and Brandon is too important for this fight to let him be in danger, if we have to face a siege. I'll take him to White Harbour."  
"But... the wolves..."  
"The wolves are allowing our soldiers to retreat inside the keep, but there's another wave of wights coming from North, we saw them from above." The woman went silent, and when she spoke again her voice trembled. "They have Vyserion." She sighed, lowering her gaze.  
Then she turned to Meera, steely and commanding again. "Help me to load him on Drogon."  
"Your grace..." Meera started, watching the two young fiancées, and then Samwell's clumsy grip on the dragonglass weapon they'd given him. Jaime had already seen that kind of concern - in more beloved eyes. _The weak, the innocents. How come everything good in this world reminds me of you, even now that the world is close to its end?_

"Your Grace." He blurted out. "Your _child_ seems wide enough to carry more than the two of you."  
Daenerys' glare was on fire when she turned to Jaime, but it was fuelled with pride, not with madness.  
"I'm here for Lord Br..."  
"Tarly!" He shouted, interrupting her, and hoping that she wouldn't order the dragon to burn him on the spot.  
"Yes, ser..." Sam answered, and took a step forward. Jaime watched as her violet eyes went wide in recognition.  
"Samwell Tarly" he repeated, still keeping his gaze defiantly on her face. The Targaryen girl kept on looking Jaime in the eye, but she didn't stop him, and she didn't retort. "You'll go with Bran. And you'll take Lady Reed as well, since she's the one who knows how to take care of him while he's in this state."  
"Seven, maybe eight." Daenerys stated then. "Drogon can't carry more than that safely."  
"The newlyweds. And the frog-witch." He said, gesturing at Alys Karstark and her wildling, who clutched each other tightly.

Daenerys waved her hand at the dragon, and the beast walked closer, the ground trembled under its steps. Its head loomed between the red leaves of the Weirwood Tree, then came down suddenly to reach the girl's extended arm.   
They all jumped. Jaime had never seen a dragon so closely. For a second, he wondered what would Aerys have made, if he had had such a weapon in his hands. The mad king's daughter simply caressed the beast's forehead, as if it were no more than a giant cat, and whispered something in Valyrian near its ear, then made a motion to Sam, Meera, and the others.   
They fumbled climbing the dark scales, then some Crannogmen helped them to raise up Bran's dead load.

Jaime surveyed the clearing. Between him and Bronn stood the young blond soldier who came on the ramparts to warn him of the arrival of the Lannister army.   
Tommen was nearly this age, he thought with a pang in his chest. The boy was scared and shaking, just a child caught up in a game much greater than himself - as his son had been, and back then he was not there and couldn't do anything to save him.  
"What's your name, lad?"  
"Phil..." he stuttered "Phil Waters."  
"Flea Bottom?"  
The guy just nodded.  
"You're good with that bow of yours, aren't you?"  
The dragon got his tongue, he nodded again. Jaime placed his golden hand on his left shoulder, then on his right one - there wasn't time for swords and vows but a bit of encouragement wouldn't do bad. "Well, _Ser_ Phil, do you see the Dragon Queen? I command you to go with her and protect her, will you do that, lad?"   
"I will." Phil whispered.  
Both Daenerys and the dragon turned their heads towards them. The woman didn't speak, but the beast growled. _Maybe it recognised me, maybe it remembers that day on the Goldroad._ Daenerys quietened it again, and agreed begrudgingly.  
Jaime had to shove the boy from where he stood, and he ran stumbling to join the others on the dragon. Daenerys was the last one who mounted it. She watched Jaime intensely while the beast rose his head and looked up. Another pat on its thick, black neck and it took flight, sending a whirl of snow and pine needles all over the cleaning. 

The son of Randyll Tarly, the son of Ned Stark, the daughter of Howland Reed, old Rickard Karstark's niece, a wildling, a witch, an _archer_.  
And Aerys' daughter. And a dragon.  
So much for all his debts, and if he weren't in the midst of the worst battle he had ever seen, Jaime would have laughed at the irony of it all. And then something else blossomed in him, something he hadn't allowed himself to nurture for a long time - a hope, a desire: he wanted to live.  
Cersei had always asked him to _die_ for her, to _die_ with her, and now it wasn't Cersei the one he wanted to live for, to live with.  
Perhaps Daenerys Targaryen was really more like her brother than like her father. Perhaps, after the battle, she wouldn't be deaf to a plea for mercy. Killing the mad king wasn't something he regretted or he was ashamed of, but Jaime knew he was going to implore for his life if he needed to.   
_Pride be damned, if it means that I can live one more day at_ her _side_.

\------

"Seems you were right." Bronn said sulkily while they moved to return inside the keep, and Jaime was about to retort when the air got colder - he didn't think it could ever get colder, but it did - and something approached, a shadow out of the corner of his eye.   
He just had the time to shout "Run!".

The soldiers ran, some of them not fast enough, as blue flames engulfed the wood around the Weirwood Tree. They ran between trunks and shrubs, and when finally they reached a glade and turned back, all they could see were the flames roaring at their back, eating the Godswood.  
Another shadow flied behind the first one, breathing yellow-red fire. The dragons danced above their heads, above the keep and the battlefield.   
It would've been terrific, if it weren't terrifying.

Jaime and Bronn gathered the men, forced them to move again. The few Lannister ones who survived the field of fire were the first who followed their orders. They needed to reach the castle as soon as possible.   
But then another blue blaze lit up the night. "Shit!" One of the Crannogmen swore. "That one was on the Northern walls."  
Jaime's legs started to run again before his own brain could formulate a thought, and the thought was _not the gate, Gods, not the gate_.

\------

Jaime didn't expect that the passage heading to the main keep could be closed. The men he had left on the ramparts were trying to break down the heavy wooden door, using a fallen tree trunk as a ram, when he reached them.

"What the hell's happened?" He and Fabben shouted at each other at the same time, and the man's eyes were filled with fear as he didn't see Lady Meera at Jaime's side.   
"The Dragon Queen dragged her away before the fire." He answered to the unspoken question. "Your lady is safe." _Mine isn't,_ he didn't say, _that's why you'd better get that bloody door open_.  
The Crannogmen soldier released a breath, and was about to speak again, when Bronn shouted in turn "What the hell's happened?!?"

Everyone followed the sellsword's extended arm and finger with their gaze, to the huge red column of light that rose inside the walls, pointing to the sky and turning the night into a purplish nightmare.   
And then they all found themselves lifted up and thrown down to the frozen ground by the explosion that came immediately after.

\-------

Jaime stuck his sword in the snow and clung on it to stand up slowly, legs shaking, eyes unfocused, a deafening noise in his ears, in his head. Other soldiers moved around him.  
The Godswood in front of him was still burning, the southern wall on his right had crumbled down in several places, and the keep behind him - he turned and couldn't move anymore: the whole fortress was aflame, some magic fire wrapped up its walls from the base to the top of the ramparts, the stone bricks shone red and candescent.  
The men who had been nearer to the door were dead, flames sprung up from their bodies.

He felt a grip on his forearm, Bronn's voice was so far away, like in a dream, a bad one. "I'm not going to die here, for fuck's sake!"  
Other voices chimed in, calling, crying, mourning, asking for guidance - Lannister soldiers, Crannogmen and Winterfell ones, less than two hundred men in all trapped between the fires. A voice was louder than the others and Jaime realised it was his own.   
"If someone else is still alive, they'll be on the southern side! We need to try!" The voice shouted. _Brienne_ , his heart shouted louder.   
"We'll climb on the rubble down there. Stay close to each other, and follow me!" The voice shouted again.  
_Brienne, Brienne, Brienne_.

Jaime raised Widow's Wail and waved it as they were to start a charge instead of a retreat. The blade was glowing. At first, he thought it just reflected the fire, but while they walked through the fallen walls of the Godswood, it shone brighter. Valyrian steel, he realised, and he wondered if Oathkeeper was shining in the same way.  
What was the point of all the magic in the world, if she - he couldn't even think about it, he couldn't let himself think about it, he had to save his men before letting himself die.  
"This way." His mouth said.  
_Brienne._

\-----

The battlefield on the western front was enfolded by a mist made of ashes, and floodlit by the burning keep.  
It felt like being inside a red, murky sea. It felt like drowning in it.

The wights they met were few and sparse, and they made a quick work of them, but the figures they could glimpse now in the distance seemed to fill the southern end of the plain, reaching the first trees of the woods.  
Living ones, dead ones, they were too far to tell, and they couldn't do anything but go further.

Jaime spotted the lone rider heading towards their small party, and stopped the men.  
"I'll deal with him." He whispered to Bronn. "If it's a man, I'll make you a signal. If it's a White Walker it means that those down there are wights, so you must go West instead of South. Try to reach White Harbour, and to keep safe. I can buy you enough time to leave the battlefield.  
For once, the sellsword didn't retort: he nodded, swallowed, a deep sadness in his eyes. He raised his hand, as if he was about to pat Jaime's shoulder, then moved it back. "Good luck, man." Bronn muttered, and that was their goodbye, while Jaime made his way among fallen bodies, ruins and dust to face the incoming knight.

\-----

It was the swearing that gave away the man, because no wight would have shouted unrepeatable curses spurring his mount, and Jaime was fast enough to call his name before Clegane charged him. He had never been happier to see the scarred face of the Hound: that face, and his dark, surly eyes, meant that the huge army down South was made of living men, and it meant that maybe _she_...

"Fuck!"  
"What's up, Clegane? You'd preferred if I had shining blue eyes?" Jaime asked as soon as they reached each other.  
"We thought you were dead."  
"We aren't." Jaime smirked, and turned to his men, waving his sword and then sheathing it. "A couple of hundred of us, at least."  
"We thought you were dead." The Hound repeated, gloomily. " _Your woman_ thought you were dead, that's why she stayed behind."

Jaime felt all his blood running dry in his veins. "Where?" He asked. "Where?" He yelled louder when Clegane didn't answer.  
"By the southern gate. She covered us when we retreated from the keep, after the bloody red witch blowed up the castle." Jaime had already started to move, but Clegane dismounted swiftly from his horse and blocked him.  
"Let me go, or I'll make you to." He hissed, his hand already back on the hilt of Widow's Wail.  
"I'm not letting you go by foot, you stubborn cunt!" Clegane replied, pushing the reins on Jaime's chest. "You'd better be on horseback when you find her, both if she's still alive and if she isn't."

Jaime was on the horse almost as fast as when he still had both hands, and barely listened to Clegane's words about R'hllor magic and Valyrian steel on fire, didn't spare a glance to the men from the Godswood who had followed his signal and approached, to their puzzled faces as they saw him riding away.  
He still had a hope. He had to find her.


End file.
